BY 
ARTHUR    C.    BENSON 

FELLOW  OF  MAGDALENE  COLLEGE 
CAMBRIDGE 

THE  UPTON    LETTERS 

FROM  A  COLLEGE 
WINDOW 

BESIDE  STILL  WATERS 

THE  ALTAR  FIRE 

THE     SCHOOLMASTER 

AT  LARGE 

THE  SILENT  ISLE 

JOHN  RUSKIN 

LEAVES  OF  THE  TREE 

CHILD  OF  THE  DAWN 

PAUL  THE  MINSTREL 

THY  ROD  AND  THY 
STAFF 


THY    ROD 
AND    THY    STAFF 


By 

ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON 

Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  AND   LONDON 

Gbe  "Knickerbocker  jpress 

1912 


Copyright,  igia 

BV 

ARTHUR   CHRISTOPHER    BENSON 


TTbe  fmicfeerbocRer  pre»«,  Hew  Iflorft 


HENRY    ROSS    TODD 

This  Book 
is  by    his    friend    the    author 
affectionately  and  gratefully 

Dedicated 


257387 


PREFACE 

I  wrote  in  the  last  of  my  books  that  dealt 
with  personal  experience,  The  Silent  Isle, 
that  I  would  some  day  tell,  if  I  could,  how 
it  was  that  my  pleasant  design  failed.  I 
only  wish  I  knew  why  it  failed ! 

Well,  this  present  book  contains  my  sad 
and  strange  adventure,  sad  at  first,  and 
always  strange,  but  afterwards  so  wonder- 
fully blest  in  all  its  gifts  and  issues — the 
sense  of  life  renewed,  of  old  comfortable 
hopes  and  purposes  destroyed,  the  glad 
prospects  of  the  soul,  the  nearness  and 
dearness  of  human  relationship — that  the 
failure  has  become  for  me  not  indeed  a 
triumph,  but  a  joy,  in  the  hunted  escape 
I    made    from    a    foolish    and    complacent 


VI 


Preface 


Paradise  into  the  real  world — or  so  at  least 
I  think! 

In  any  case  it  is  all  here  humbly  and 
plainly  stated — the  disappointment,  the  mis- 
ery, the  stumbling  in  the  lonely  mist — and 
then  suddenly  the  beautiful  outlook,  as 
upon  mountain-heads  and  falling  streams 
and  homelike  valleys,  that  flashed  upon  my 
wondering  eyes.  Of  course  the  danger  of 
such  a  book  is  that  it  may  all  come  to 
seem  too  dramatic,  too  heroic — a  grouping 
of  effects  and  contrasts  around  a  central 
figure;  but  I  can  only  say,  quite  frankly 
and  simply,  that  anything  less  heroic  and 
less  dramatic  than  my  handling  of  the  ad- 
venture, cannot  well  be  conceived.  If  I 
were  in  search  of  credit,  I  might  well  wish 
to  suppress  the  ghastly  inefficiency,  the 
comatose  listlessness,  the  shuddering  cow- 
ardice with  which  I  trod  the  dreary  path. 
A  noble  nature,  by  hopeful  endurance  and 


Preface  vii 

tender  considerateness,  might  have  made 
something  splendid  out  of  the  miserable 
episode.  But  I  conducted  myself  like  the 
abject  figure  in  the  Winter's  Tale  of  the 
gentleman  pursued  by  the  bear;  it  was  a 
dolorous  and  undignified  flight,  full  of  mis- 
erable indecision  and  helpless  prostration. 
I  showed  no  fight  at  all;  I  simply  shuffled 
despairingly  away  from  the  monster  which 
pursued  me,  murmuring  apologies,  and 
pleading  for  mercy. 

It  was  that  which  made  the  end  of  it  all 
so  comforting  and  reviving — though  in  a 
sense  so  humiliating — that  I  had  not  earned 
my  reward,  except  by  bearing  the  blows  of 
fate  as  a  bolster  might  bear  them,  limply 
bulging  back  to  my  former  shape.  I  do 
not  wish  there  to  be  any  mistake  about 
this;  for  shocking  as  the  experience  was, 
I  was  very  tenderly  used,  never  tried  be- 
yond my  strength,  never  absolutely  at  the 


viii  Preface 

end  of  my  resources,  helped  patiently  over 
many  a  stile.  That  was  the  one  hopeful 
thing  about  it  all.  I  was  intended  to  suffer, 
and  I  did  suffer ;  but  I  was  not  overwhelmed 
by  suffering,  and  day  by  day  I  grew  to  feel 
that  my  miseries  were  being  very  delicately 
adjusted  and  apportioned  to  the  exact  end 
in  view.  My  brain  was  never  numbed,  and 
I  was  always  aware  exactly  what  was  hap- 
pening to  me.  And  thus  I  had  the  blessed 
sense  that,  though  I  was  punished,  I  was 
also  forgiven.  It  was  remedial  and  not 
retributive. 

I  do  not  suppose  that  those  who  saw  me 
constantly  in  my  trouble  could  have  had 
any  idea  that  it  was  so  with  me;  the  com- 
passion and  the  affection  shown  me  made 
me  aware  of  how  unjust  my  chastisement 
appeared,  falling  on  a  decorous  and  well- 
intentioned  person,  whose  fault  was  to  have 
done  too  much  rather  than  too  little. 


Preface  ix 

And  this  gives  me  the  hope,  and  more 
than  the  hope,  that  if  one  could  see  into 
the  minds  of  the  afflicted  and  the  despair- 
ing, one  would  know  that  though  they  may 
repine  they  do  not  rebel ;  and  that  if  indeed 
they  seem  to  rebel,  it  is  just  that  very  stub- 
bornness of  will  which  has  to  be  broken 
down ;  because  the  end  of  it  all  is  this,  that 
God  can  do  nothing  with  us  unless  we  yield 
ourselves  up  to  Him,  and  that  if  we  can- 
not do  that  willingly  and  spontaneously, 
we  must  learn  how  utterly  dependent 
on  Him  we  are,  that  it  is  He  that  has 
made  us  and  not  we  ourselves;  for  thus 
and  thus  only  can  we  be  in  union  with 
Him,  by  realising  first  our  own  infirmity, 
and  next,  that  strength  and  happiness  lie 
only  in  being  inside  His  Will.  That  is  the 
transference  which  we  all  have  to  make, 
and  suffering  matters  little  if  we  learn  to 
make  it;  but  we  cannot  dictate  our  own 


x  Preface 

terms  in  the  matter,  or  arrange  an  impres- 
sive capitulation;  we  must  just  crawl  home 
like  the  prodigal  son,  counting  so  little 
upon  a  welcome,  that  the  music  and  the 
feasting  must  come  to  us  as  an  unutterable 
and  incredible  surprise,  and  be  the  last  sign 
of  our  true  humiliation. 


The  Old  Lodge, 

Magdalene  College,  Cambridge, 

September  20,  1912. 


THY  ROD  AND  THY  STAFF 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 
I 

In  the  winter  of  1909  I  recovered  from  an 
illness  which  had  lasted  over  two  years.  I 
have  had  very  little  ill-health  in  my  life,  and 
possibly  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  judge, 
but  as  far  as  my  experience  goes,  it  is  the 
most  dreadful  and  afflicting  illness  which 
it  is  possible  to  have,  both  for  the  sufferer 
and  for  all  about  him.  Neurasthenia,  hypo- 
chondria, melancholia — hideous  names  for 
hideous  things — it  was  these,  or  one  of 
these.  The  symptoms  a  persistent  sleep- 
lessness, a  perpetual  dejection,  amount- 
ing at  times  to  an  intolerable  mental 
anguish.  The  mind  perfectly  unclouded 
and  absolutely  hopeless.     I  tried  rest-cures, 


4  Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

medicines,  treatment  of  all  kinds,  waters, 
hypnotism. 

There  was  a  month  of  travel,  during 
which  the  lights  of  life  seemed  to  be  going 
out  one  by  one.  I  was  at  Rome,  and  there 
were  hours  when  the  cloud  lifted  suddenly 
in  that  golden-brown,  deep-streeted,  strong- 
savoured  city,  musical  with  waters.  I  re- 
member an  afternoon  of  wonderful  peace 
in  the  sunshine  on  the  top  of  the  mounded 
hill-fort  of  Tusculum,  with  the  cyclamens 
in  leaf  in  the  chestnut  copse,  and  a  strange 
fantastic  city  thrust  out  like  a  horn  before 
us  in  among  the  blue  hills;  a  day  when 
we  walked  far  out  among  the  tombs  on  the 
Appian  Way,  and  a  hope  of  peace  came 
quietly  to  me  in  the  long-shadowed  after- 
noon, as  the  twilight  rolled  in  purple 
vapours  over  the  wide  plain;  but  it  was 
all  merged  in  a  dreadful  weariness,  a 
drying-up  of  the  springs  of  life. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff  5 

Then  it  was  Florence,  that  silver-white 
and  shapely  town.  I  toiled  faithfully  about 
to  see  beautiful  things,  till  the  whole  be- 
came unutterably  hideous  to  me,  and  I 
sickened  for  home;  then  came  an  attempt 
to  return  to  work,  and  another  collapse; 
and  then  came  the  worst  experience  of  all, 
when  I  went  for  some  careful  treatment  to 
a  nursing  home  in  the  suburbs  of  London. 
It  was  a  fine  house,  luxuriously  furnished, 
and  I  received  the  most  extraordinary  kind- 
ness from  the  good  rugged  doctor  who 
presided,  who,  however  tired  he  was,  came 
to  sit  with  me  in  the  evening,  day  after 
day,  to  try  and  interest  me  with  kindly 
talk,  and  from  his  motherly  wife  who 
thought  of  twenty  things  that  might  amuse 
me.  I  used  to  wake,  morning  by  morning, 
in  my  pleasant  room,  and  hear  the  drowsy 
twittering  of  birds  in  the  great  plane-tree, 
the  upper  boughs  of  which  were  on  a  level 


6  Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

with  my  window,  and  wonder  half-bewil- 
dered where  I  was;  till  the  old  horror 
rushed  back  into  the  mind,  the  dread  of 
I  knew  not  what,  the  anguish  of  life  thus 
strangely  interrupted,  perhaps  never  to  be 
resumed.  The  windows  of  my  room  looked 
out  over  the  back  gardens  of  two  rows  of 
tall  houses;  nearly  opposite  was  a  room 
in  a  big  house,  which  had  no  curtains  or 
blind;  and  at  certain  hours  a  human  be- 
ing, whose  head  seemed  wholly  bald  and 
strangely  coloured,  and  who  had  no  features 
that  I  could  discern,  used  to  sit  by  the 
window  and  manipulate  some  strange  ma- 
chine, in  which  things  like  dolls  swung 
quickly  to  and  fro  on  wires.  This  strange 
sight  used  to  draw  me  with  a  morbid 
horror  to  gaze  upon  it  hour  by  hour;  what 
shadowed  life  did  it  represent?  I  think 
that  the  worst  hour  of  my  whole  illness  came 
to  me  there,  on  a  sunny  morning  full  of 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff         7 

life  and  light,  when  I  walked  on  the  high 
Common  with  all  its  wide  rolling  views, 
and  with  the  smoke  of  the  city  going  up, 
and  sate  down  on  a  bench  among  the 
dingles,  feeling  myself  deserted  by  God  and 
man,  condemned  to  suffer  a  pain  of  which 
each  minute  seemed  an  eternity,  in  which 
dread,  disgust,  repugnance,  and  dreariness 
seemed  all  entwined  in  one  sickening 
draught.  In  the  afternoons  I  used  to  go 
down  to  my  club,  friends  used  to  meet  me, 
walk  with  me,  entertain  me.  I  often  dined 
out  quietly,  and  in  the  evenings  my  facul- 
ties seemed  to  be  dulled  into  acquiescence; 
but  there  was  always  the  thought  of  the 
next  day's  waking  ahead  of  me;  and  at  last 
that  was  over,  and  I  went  back  to  my 
home,  to  dawdle  and  loiter  through  the 
days,  just  capable  of  attending  to  neces- 
sary correspondence,  and  able  by  an  effort 
to  meet  people,  to  talk,  to  join  feebly  and 


8  Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

irritably  in  life.  All  the  time  I  was  cease- 
lessly advised  to  travel  and  to  move  about; 
and  I  visited  many  beautiful  places  in 
England,  with  some  faithful  friend  or 
other,  all  utterly  and  indistinguishably  sad 
and  mournful  to  me.  I  am  not  sure  that 
this  is  the  best  policy  to  pursue,  though 
perhaps  it  saves  the  sick  mind  from  the 
worst  sort  of  brooding,  though  at  what  a 
cost!  I  am  not  sure  that  nature  is  not 
trying  by  listless  weariness  to  compel  the 
overstrained  and  jaded  brain  to  entire  in- 
action. But  there  lies  the  mystery  of  this 
strange  affliction — that  no  one  knows  what 
to  do  for  one,  or  how  to  help.  Even  the 
wisest  and  kindliest  doctor  can  but  listen 
as  it  were  at  the  door  of  the  torture- 
chamber,  and  hear  the  groans  of  the  racked 
spirit  within. 

After  six  months  of  these  miseries  I  went 
back  to  my  work — it  would  have  been  per- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff  9 

haps   better   if   I   had   never   left   it — and 
struggled  on,  just  able  to  get  through  my 
daily  engagements,  but  without  the  slight- 
est interest  in  anything.     My  friends  did 
their  best  for  me,  entertained  me,  travelled 
with    me;    I    received    incredible    kindness 
from  many  doctors,  and  from  one  in  par- 
ticular, whose  name  stands  at  the  head  of 
these  pages,  whose  brotherly  kindness  never 
failed  or  faltered.      They  could  really  do 
little  for  me  except  reassure  me  that  there 
was  nothing  organically  wrong.      The  ill- 
ness is  not,  I  think,  dangerous  to  life,  ex- 
cept in  so  far  as  the  perpetual  desire  for 
rest  on  any  terms,  even  on  terms  of  death 
itself,    must    almost    inevitably    make    the 
sufferer   dwell   upon   the  thought  of   self- 
destruction  ;  but  my  natural  vitality,  or  my 
imagination,    or    perhaps    my    cowardice, 
saved  me  to  a  great  extent  from  ever  en- 
tertaining this  purpose.      I   think  it  is  a 


io        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

disease  which  affects  the  emotional  centres 
of  the  brain,  not  the  intellectual;  and  my 
own  advice  to  any  sufferer  would  be,  if 
possible,  to  avoid  any  sort  of  excitement  or 
distraction,  and  just  try  to  live  the  quiet- 
est kind  of  regular  and  familiar  life,  pass- 
ing the  time  as  easily  as  possible. 

But  I  have  no  intention  of  writing  about 
my  illness.  I  did  at  one  time  propose  to 
myself  to  do  so,  when  I  found  my  healtfr 
returning.  But  it  is  better,  I  am  sure,  not 
to  dwell  upon  it,  for  many  reasons.  I 
talked  to  a  great  friend  of  mine  on  the 
subject.  I  said  something  of  this  kind,  that 
I  thought  that  human  beings,  if  they  had 
any  power  of  expression  and  any  desire  to 
make  that  expression  of  use,  ought  to  give 
some  account  of  real  and  vital  experiences. 
I  went  on  to  say  that  it  seemed  cowardly 
and  trivial,  if  one  had  passed  through  a 
tragic  experience,  an  experience  infinitely 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        n 

more  vital  and  momentous  than  any  that 
had  ever  befallen  one,  which  had  changed, 
once  and  for  all,  all  one's  ideas  and 
thoughts  and  views  about  life,  not  to  put 
that  experience  at  the  disposal  of  others. 
He  said  to  me,  "Yes,  I  agree;  but  I  am 
quite  sure  of  one  thing;  an  experience  like 
yours  may  be  treated  of,  and  perhaps  ought 
to  be  treated  of;  but  you  must  avoid  the 
physical  element — it  must  simply  be  treated 
psychologically."  I  saw  at  once  that  he 
was  right. 

The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  plain 
does  my  duty  appear.  Since  my  illness  I 
have  put  all  thought  of  my  sufferings  aside 
—indeed  I  have  had  little  temptation  to 
do  otherwise,  because  of  the  extraordinary 
and  wonderful  influx  of  delight  and  inter- 
est and  zest  in  life  that  is  the  result  of 
it.  The  long  rest,  the  abstention  from  all 
mental    or    emotional    exercise,    seem    to 


12        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

have  swept  my  mind  clear  of  innumerable 
puzzles,  and  tangles,  and  questionings.  It 
is  like  a  resurrection  from  the  dead,  a  new 
beginning  of  life,  with  observation,  and 
admiration,  and  enthusiasm,  all  youthfully 
and  delightfully  renewed.  I  had  written, 
no  doubt,  too  many  books  out  of  the  emo- 
tional part  of  my  mind,  too  introspectively 
and  too  intently.  The  illness  was  a  per- 
fectly natural  penalty  for  excessive  brain- 
work  and  excessive  stimulation.  Since  I 
recovered  I  have  worked  mainly  at  tan- 
gible, and  concrete,  and  external  matters; 
but  as  I  tried  in  my  earlier  books  to  work 
out  a  sort  of  emotional  philosophy,  and 
recommended  a  very  definite  point  of  view, 
I  feel  it  to  be  a  duty  to  revise  all  that  in 
the  light  of  my  terrible  experience;  for 
terrible  as  it  must  be  for  any  one,  it  is 
infinitely  more  terrible  to  one  who  has 
lived  consistently,  if  not  in  joy,  at  least  in 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        13 

eager  interests  and  placid  pleasures.  But 
the  darkness  through  which  I  passed,  in 
daily  dread  and  unutterable  dismay,  has 
taught  me,  I  believe,  some  new  things  about 
humanity,  about  the  soul,  about  God.  It 
has  simplified  many  things  that  were  in- 
tricate ;  it  has  put  life  in  a  new  proportion. 
I  may  say  gratefully  and  humbly  that  so  far 
from  adding  shadows  to  life,  the  affliction, 
deep  and  profound  as  it  was,  has  brought 
me  nothing  but  hope  and  wonder  and  joy; 
it  has  cleansed  and  fortified  life ;  and  indeed 
the  fact  that  the  soul  can  pass  unscathed 
and  undimmed  through  the  blackest  dark- 
ness which  can  overwhelm  it  is  surely  in 
itself  a  proof  of  its  vitality  and  its  divine 
quality.  I  do  not  mean  that  one  passes  at 
a  single  bound  from  darkness  to  light.  I 
have  had  many  dark  and  troubled  hours 
since  my  recovery,  but  the  light  has  shone 
steadily  and  triumphantly  through  them. 


14        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

In  the  old  story  of  Perseus,  the  young 
hero  had  to  go  down  to  Hades  to  fetch 
the  hat  of  darkness,  which  when  worn 
made  him  invisible  to  mortal  gaze,  and  en- 
abled him  to  approach  the  Gorgon  whom 
it  was  his  task  to  slay.  He  came  out  of 
the  craggy  outlet  of  Hell  pale  and  grave, 
stained  and  blackened  to  view  from  travers- 
ing the  smoke  of  those  subterranean  streams 
of  fire,  but  with  the  trophy  in  his  hand. 
If  I  could  but  believe  that  there  was  any 
evil  beast,  injurious  and  fatal  to  mankind, 
that  I  was  meant  to  kill!  But  I  am  no 
combatant;  only  a  lover  of  labour,  and 
order,  and  peaceful  ways.  Yet  it  is  be- 
cause I  feel  that  the  path  I  trod,  however 
laborious  and  orderly  it  was,  was  not  the 
way  of  peace,  that  I  am  constrained  to 
speak,  and  I  will  speak,  God  helping  me. 


II 

One  great  calamity  befell  me  in  the  second 
summer  of  my  illness :  the  death  of  my  best 
and  oldest  friend  by  an  accident  in  the 
Alps.  I  have  told  elsewhere  something  of 
the  life  of  Herbert  Tatham.  He  had  en- 
tered Eton  with  me  as  a  boy,  we  had  gone 
on  to  Cambridge  together,  and  had  re- 
turned to  Eton  as  masters.  Besides  our 
constant  association  in  work  and  recrea- 
tion, we  had  gone  every  year  at  Easter  to 
some  quiet  place  to  work  and  walk,  to  talk 
and  read  together.  His  was  certainly  the 
ablest  mind  that  I  have  ever  come  into 
contact  with.  He  had  an  incredible  mem- 
ory, and  he  saw  more  quickly  and  clearly 
into  the  heart  of  a  difficult  question  than 

any  one  I  had  ever  known.     Such  insight 
15 


1 6        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

into  complicated  and  obscure  subjects  as  I 
have  ever  attained  to,  was  due  entirely  to 
him.  But  besides  all  this  he  had  the  sim- 
plest heart  and  the  sweetest  temper  I  have 
ever  known.  He  was  wholly  and  entirely 
unambitious.  He  loved  his  boys  and  his 
work,  he  loved  his  quiet  family  life;  he  had 
not  a  thought  of  personal  distinction,  nor 
the  smallest  desire  for  credit  or  for  praise. 
His  purity  of  heart,  his  kindliness,  his 
serenity,  were  incomparable.  One  of  the 
saddest  things  about  my  illness  was  that  I 
had.  been  wholly  separated  from  him.  He 
had  more  than  once  offered  to  travel  with 
me,  but  I  could  not  inflict  my  sore  and 
wounded  spirit  upon  him.  I  had  seen  him 
only  once  in  the  whole  period,  when  I  was 
at  my  worst,  wholly  devoid  of  hope  and 
ease,  and  when  I  felt  what  a  strain  upon 
his  sympathy  and  geniality  the  visit  was. 
He  could  never  bear  the  sight  of  suffering 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        17 

unless  he  could  relieve  it,  and  I  was  past 
relief. 

I  was  sitting  in  the  early  sunshine  at 
Harrogate  in  a  dreary  public  garden,  with 
invalids  promenading  along  asphalt  paths, 
among  garish  flower-beds,  and  with  the 
sound  of  a  band  in  the  air,  when  my  eye 
fell  upon  the  paragraph.  The  initials 
were  given  wrongly,  and  the  traveller  whose 
death  was  recorded  was  said  to  have  come 
from  Cromer.  But  I  knew  in  a  moment 
the  truth,  and  in  the  course  of  the  day  it 
was  confirmed.  Strange  to  say,  though  I 
suffered  acutely,  with  a  sense  of  desolation 
which  I  cannot  express,  with  a  feeling  of 
rebellion  against  what  seemed  so  wanton 
a  waste  of  life  and  power,  the  event  not  only 
did  not  throw  me  back  into  my  miseries, 
but  took  me  out  of  myself.  I  have  even 
dared  to  fancy  something  deeper  and  more 
strange — that  something  of  his  strength  and 


1 8        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

serenity  came  to  my  help.  I  felt  wonder- 
fully and  astonishingly  near  to  him  in 
those  dark  days.  His  death  took  from  me 
a  companion  as  dear  as  a  brother,  and  it 
brought  back  memory  of  joyful  and  un- 
troubled days  with  a  bitter  poignancy.  But 
neither  can  I  deny  that  from  that  time  I 
grew  stronger  and  calmer ;  and  I  say  boldly 
that  I  think  that  his  very  self  helped  me. 
But  for  a  time  it  cast  me  into  a  curious 
dreamlike  mood,  when  I  lived  through,  in 
mournful  detail,  our  old  and  delightful 
companionship.  It  brought  back  our  long 
walks  together  in  mountainous  places,  taken 
so  often  in  that  comfortable  silence  and 
unison  that  is  better  than  speech;  and  the 
long  fireside  talks,  when  one  said  exactly 
what  rose  in  the  mind  and  as  it  rose. 

How  little  I  had  thought,  when  we 
climbed  the  steep  slopes  of  Ditchling  Bea- 
con,  that  day  of  early  spring,  when  the 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        19 

snow  lay  in  stained  wreaths  in  the  shel- 
tered folds  of  the  hill,  that  it  was  to  be 
the  last  of  our  walks  together !  How  little 
I  dreamed  when  I  said  good-bye  to  him  on 
a  fresh  morning,  and  saw  his  hand  waved 
in  farewell  and  his  anxious  smile,  and  re- 
turned as  I  did  to  my  fears  and  shadows, 
that  he  would  be  the  first  to  go!  I  can- 
not say  what  that  friendship  and  what  that 
loss  have  been  to  me — the  best  friendship, 
the  saddest  loss  by  far  I  have  ever  experi- 
enced. I  can  say  nothing  more  of  the  event 
except  that  I  do  indeed  think  that  he  came 
to  my  help,  and  assisted  my  failing  steps 
out  of  the  darkness,  though  at  the  time  it 
seemed  as  black  as  ever,  and  his  loss  a 
calamity  which  could  neither  be  appeased 
nor  repaired.  Thus  I  spent  a  haunted 
summer,  travelling  wearily  about  in  search 
of  distraction,  and  returned  to  my  work 
without  hope  or  joy. 


20        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

The  second  year  of  my  wretched  state 
was  now  drawing  to  an  end.  I  had  ac- 
cepted a  commission,  with  what  reluctance 
and  dismay  can  hardly  be  described,  to 
write  weekly  articles  for  a  Church  paper. 
I  was  not  restricted  as  to  subjects,  and  I 
was  told  that  I  might  use  any  materials 
which  I  had  already  in  hand.  As  I  had 
a  large  stock  to  draw  upon  of  little  essays 
and  pieces  which  had  never  been  published, 
I  undertook  to  attempt  it;  when  I  found 
to  my  surprise  that,  though  there  were 
many  days  when  I  could  write  nothing, 
and  could  only  sit  staring  in  helpless  be- 
wilderment at  my  paper,  yet  there  were 
other  days  when  I  could  write  with  some- 
thing like  my  old  facility.  This  helped  me 
greatly,  and  I  was  by  this  time  living  my 
ordinary  life,  teaching  a  little,  accepting 
invitations  to  dine  out,  and  even  occasion- 
ally to  read  a  paper  or  give  an  address. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        21 

Then  came  a  week  in  which,  though  weak 
and  languid,  I  had  a  lull  in  my  mental 
troubles  altogether,  and  found  myself  calm 
and  serene.  I  did  not  dare  to  formulate 
any  sort  of  hope  as  to  the  future,  but  after 
that  date  the  cloud  lifted  off  me  for  days 
at  a  time.  It  was  at  Tenby,  where  I  spent 
the  winter  of  1909-1910,  that  I  first  real- 
ised that  I  was  cured.  The  least  over- 
exertion of  body  and  mind  brought  the 
cloud  back,  but  it  passed  again,  and  I  had 
many  days  of  quiet  enjoyment.  I  well  re- 
member one  particular  day  when  we  went 
to  visit  the  ruins  of  an  old  episcopal  palace, 
where  the  low  winter  sun  fell  calmly  upon 
ivied  towers  and  ruined  walls.  A  radiant 
happiness  to  which  I  had  long  been  a 
stranger  came  back.  The  stream  running 
clear  through  the  withered  reed-beds  had 
its  old  melody,  and  the  song  of  a  robin, 
perched    in    an    embrasure    of    the    thick- 


22        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

walled  keep,  had  a  poignant  sweetness  that 
brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes.  But  I  still 
had  a  desire  to  bemoan  my  sorrow  in 
friendly  ears.  One  bright  morning  I  was 
walking  with  a  friend,  whose  faithful  kind- 
ness and  goodness  had  never  failed  through 
my  darkest  months.  We  were  skirting  the 
cliff-edge,  with  its  steep  copses  and  bramble- 
brakes,  and  examining  with  delight  the  sea- 
anemones  in  the  low  rock-pools,  when  the 
old  pain  came  back,  and  I  said  something 
about  the  sufferings  I  endured.  My  friend 
smiled  at  me  and  stopped  me.  He  said: 
"  You  must  have  noticed  that  I  have  not 
encouraged  you  ever  to  speak  of  your 
troubles  while  we  have  been  together  here. 
I  know  quite  well  what  you  have  suffered. 
But  you  are  so  clearly  and  obviously,  for 
all  practical  purposes,  well  again,  that 
you  must  try  not  to  revert  even  in  mem- 
ory, and  still  less  in  talk,  to  what  is  past." 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        23 

It  was  wise  and  good  advice,  and  from 
that  moment  I  spoke  of  it  no  more,  except 
to  confess  thankfully  that  it  was  indeed  so. 
And  I  returned  to  Cambridge  for  the  term, 
for  the  first  time  for  nearly  three  years, 
with  a  sense  of  interest  and  vitality  and 
happiness.  Of  course  there  were  still  days 
when  the  old  misery  came  back,  striking 
the  words  from  my  lips  and  the  pen  from 
my  fingers.  The  wounds  of  the  mind  are 
not  healed  in  a  month,  but  it  was  now  a 
perfectly  bearable  thing,  and  never  lasted 
long. 

And  then  there  came  to  me,  after  the 
long  enforced  rest,  a  vividness  of  interest 
in  life,  in  books,  in  talk,  in  ideas,  that  I 
had  not  known  for  years.  The  only  sorrow 
that  still  for  a  time  haunted  me  was  the 
sense  of  the  feeble  ineffectiveness  to  which 
in  the  prime  of  life  I  had  been  reduced. 
While  my  contemporaries  were  finding  new 


24        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

fields  of  work,  new  activities,  wider  ranges 
of  influence,  I  was  sitting  listless  and  de- 
jected, with  no  zest  in  life,  no  interest  in 
events  and  ideas,  often  plunged  in  despair 
and  mental  anguish,  only  thankful  if  I 
could  discharge  my  slender  duties,  and  con- 
ceal my  hopeless  miseries  from  those  about 
me.  It  is  a  painful  but  a  wholesome  pro- 
cess to  find  our  real  level.  But  I  was  not 
too  blind  to  perceive  how  tenderly  I  had 
been  held  back.  If  I  had  been  in  the 
occupation  of  some  more  important  post 
when  my  illness  came  upon  me,  it  would 
have  meant  failure  to  myself,  the  hamper- 
ing of  work,  and  ultimately  resignation  and 
retirement.  I  had  instead  been  left  with 
almost  the  only  kind  of  work  that  I  could 
do,  with  a  perfectly  clear  tie  to  life,  and 
with  a  task  that  I  could  just  perform. 
Meanwhile  there  had  been  a  wholesome 
delay  in  the  over-production  of  hasty  books, 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        25 

all  spun  out  of  my  one  consciousness,  vague, 
introspective,  and  unbalanced.  I  had  be- 
fore been  working  inwards  instead  of 
outwards,  and  I  had  lost  the  true  per- 
spective of  life  and  thought.  But  actually 
owing  to  my  illness  I  had  been  able  to  get 
the  rest  I  required,  without  severing  my 
hold  on  practical  life  and  definite  duties. 
I  saw  at  last  that  I  had  been  faithfully 
and  wisely  humiliated.  I  had  done  my  old 
work  in  a  pretentious  spirit,  not  exactly 
for  show,  but  certainly  for  effect.  I  had 
tried  to  satisfy  my  enjoyment  and  my 
vanity  alike.  I  had  tried  to  do  things 
easily  and  impressively,  and  I  had  sacri- 
ficed quiet  duty  to  restless  satisfaction. 
This  was  my  reward.  Justo  judicio  con- 
demnatus  sum.  I  had  been  very  frankly 
and  sincerely  shown  what  my  chance  might 
have  been,  if  I  had  but  developed  my  own 
strength  and  hopefulness.     But  I  had  done 


26        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

neither.  I  had  just  aimed  at  easy  relations 
all  round.  I  had  been  interested  as  a  school- 
master in  my  boys,  and  tried  to  keep  the 
tone  of  my  little  state  pure  and  contented. 
But  there  had  been  no  self-sacrifice  about 
it;  and  I  had  pursued  other  ambitions  as 
well.  I  saw  at  last  that  my  chances  had 
not  been  taken  from  me  but  actually  given 
me.  That  I  had  been  given  work  exactly 
adapted  to  my  capacities.  As  I  had  made 
so  little  of  the  talents  entrusted  to  me,  I 
was  at  last  set  to  deal  faithfully  if  I  could 
with  a  minute  deposit.  And  meanwhile  my 
alleviations  were  immense.  They  were  sent 
me,  I  think,  with  a  compassionate  kindness, 
like  toys  to  a  fractious  child.  I  had  loved 
ease  and  comfort,  money  and  dignity,  friend- 
ship and  culture,  and  they  were  handed  me 
in  abundance,  because  I  was  not  worthy 
of  the  higher  gifts.  My  very  illness  would 
have  had  a  tragic  significance  for  one  more 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        27 

enthusiastic  and  high-hearted.  But  for  me 
it  was  made  comparatively  easy  by  the 
trivial  buoyancy  of  my  nature,  and  the  kind 
of  feeble  courtesy  that  come  of  vague  ideals 
loosely  held.  The  clouds  had  indeed  broken 
in  blessings  on  my  head;  and  I  was  out  of 
the  dark  valley  at  last,  in  the  land  of 
Beulah,  with  all  sorts  of  pretty  woodland 
prospects  about  me,  and  the  company  of 
contented  shepherd-folk.  Not  only  did  I 
never  regret  or  resent  my  miseries,  when 
they  were  once  over,  but  against  the  dark 
background  the  charm  and  interest  of  my 
quiet  life  outlined  itself  in  a  delicate 
radiance.  All  this  came  home  to  me  in  a 
flash  when  an  old  friend  spoke  to  me  with 
a  tender  condolence  of  the  check  to  a 
promising  career  that  my  illness  had  been. 
I  saw  that  it  was  not  a  check  at  all;  it 
was  just  a  scorching  up  of  uneasy  vanities 
and  perfectly  unattainable  ambitions.    And 


28        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

thus  the  valley  of  humiliation  became  to 
me,  as  to  Christian,  the  very  happiest  re- 
gion of  the  whole  pilgrimage.  There  were 
larger  things  which  it  brought  me,  of  which 
I  may  presently  speak;  but  meantime  the 
song  of  the  shepherd-boy  with  the  hearts- 
ease in  his  bosom  was  mine : 

He  that  is  down  need  fear  no  fall, 
He  that  is  low  no  pride. 

And  I  echoed  it  with  all  my  might. 

I  had  written  in  a  previous  book,  Beside 
Still  Waters,  in  a  highly-tinted  allegory,  of 
my  own  career.  What  was  wrong  with  that 
book  was  its  solemn  self-consciousness.  I 
thought  that  I  was  doing  a  fine  unworldly 
thing  to  seek  a  retirement  in  the  prime  of 
life.  But  it  was  meant,  I  see,  though  not 
consciously,  to  draw  a  charming  picture  of 
contemplative  seclusion,  and  to  arouse  the 
envy  of  the  hustled  and  hurried.     What  I 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        29 

am  now  describing  is  very  different  from 
that.  There  is  every  reason  why  I  should 
not  withhold  my  new  experience  from 
others.  Others  may  have  the  same  dread- 
ful path  to  traverse,  and  may  have  to  face 
the  same  severe  extinguishing  of  personal 
aims  and  ambitions.  What  I  want  to  say 
as  clearly  as  I  can  is  this,  that  it  is  pos- 
sible not  only  to  endure  a  discipline  which 
seems  from  day  to  day  perfectly  insupport- 
able; but  that  it  is  also  possible  to  come 
out  at  the  end  in  sober  gratitude  and  hope- 
fulness, with  one's  limitations  clearly  de- 
fined, one's  path  perfectly  clear.  I  do  not 
say  that  ambition  dies  so  easily  as  that. 
But  there  is  here  no  attempt  at  self-glori- 
fication. It  is  a  humble  confession  of  a 
great  failure;  a  failure  to  use  powers  and 
opportunities,  a  failure  to  win  usefulness 
and  influence,  and  a  failure,  too,  to  make  a 
little  earthly  paradise,  from  which  all  harsh 


30        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

elements  were  to  be  fastidiously  excluded. 
There  may  be  further  experiences  ahead 
worth  the  telling;  but  this  I  hardly  anti- 
cipate. I  now  write  for  the  comfort  of 
others  and  not  for  my  own  delight,  except 
the  natural  delight  of  the  wayfarer  in  his 
escape  from  the  whirlpool,  and  the  monsters 
of  the  deep,  and  the  beguiling  goddess  in 
the  woodland  isle. 


Ill 

The  malady  itself  is  the  most  grievous 
that  can  be  borne,  because  it  is  the  malady 
which  is  behind  all  pain  and  suffering. 
Pain  and  suffering  from  other  causes  re- 
gister themselves  upon  a  certain  part  of 
the  brain,  but  in  this  malady  that  very  por- 
tion of  the  brain  is  in  itself  tortured,  so 
that  it  pours  back  the  sensation  of  suffer- 
ing upon  all  impressions  alike,  whether 
glad  or  grievous.  Every  memory  and  every 
association  is  poisoned,  for  the  sick  mind 
says  to  itself,  when  it  receives  a  pleasurable 
emotion,  that  there  was  a  time  when  this 
was  delightful;  but  now  it  merely  serves  to 
mark  and  emphasise  the  contrast,  and  thus 
all  delight  is  poisoned  at  the  source,  and 

the  only  refuge  for  the  brain  is  to  escape 
31 


32         Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

as  far  as  it  can  from  all  impressions  what- 
soever. Even  affection  and  sympathy  are 
but  as  fuel  to  the  malign  fire;  they  bring 
no  comfort,  and  the  mere  act  of  apprehend- 
ing them  is  in  itself  pain. 

The  one  question  then  that  emerges  out 
of  all  this  grievous  chastening  is,  what  does 
it  all  mean,  what  is  the  significance  of  it 
all  for  myself  and  for  others?  Let  me  try 
to  be  perfectly  honest  with  myself.  I  look 
back  and  see  myself  starting  in  the  race 
with  no  evil  intentions,  but  on  the  other 
hand  with  no  unselfish  or  noble  aspirations, 
loving  ease  and  amusement  and  comfort 
above  everything;  with  no  deep  or  passion- 
ate affections,  and  yet  constituted  to  win 
affection  easily ;  with  certain  definite  powers 
and  activities,  with  the  gift,  I  think,  of 
making  a  certain  side  of  life,  both  in  speech 
and  writing,  clear  and  attractive  to  others. 
These  powers  were  taken  from  me.      One 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        33 

cannot  communicate  a  joy  one  does  not  feel, 
and  one  of  the  heavy  burdens  of  this  terri- 
ble illness  is  to  make  one  indifferent  to 
beauty,  to  interest,  to  emotion,  to  life. 
Did  I  find  myself  stronger,  more  patient, 
more  brave?  By  no  means;  it  was,  in  fact, 
just  the  opposite.  I  found  myself  lazy, 
listless,  drowsy,  indifferent,  more  impatient 
every  day  of  the  burden  of  fear  and  appre- 
hension and  melancholy,  more  inclined  to 
catch  at  every  small  alleviation.  That  is 
the  worst  of  wearing  pain  of  mind,  that 
it  takes  away  one's  power  and  will  to  fight. 
And  though  I  might  wish  to  serve  others, 
as  I  did  a  little  in  the  old  days  out  of  the 
abundance  of  my  zest  and  enjoyment,  I  had 
now  nothing  to  give  them,  nothing  to  share 
with  them.  I  did  not  find  that  I  became 
even  habituated  to  suffering.  Rather  I 
think  that  every  access  of  the  long  malady 
was    more    sickening    and    disheartening. 


34        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

Neither  did  it  give  me  any  power  of  help- 
ing myself.  I  turned  in  moments  of  an- 
guish to  any  source  of  help  and  comfort: 
my  spirit  seemed  to  beat  the  void  with 
urgent  wings,  like  the  bird  sent  out  from 
the  ark,  and  found  everywhere  the  welter- 
ing waste  of  waters.  No  human  eye  could 
test  my  misery,  no  hand  could  soothe  it, 
and  God  seemed  indifferent  to  my  pain.  If 
I  myself  by  some  accidental  stroke  crush 
and  maim  a  delicate  insect,  I  can  at  least 
end  its  misery;  I  do  not  stand  and  see  it 
wither  with  pitiless  disdain.  And  here  lay 
the  bitterest  anguish  of  all,  that  it  was  the 
God  who  had  made  me  that  thus  chastened 
me.  I  saw  the  root  of  my  evils — it  was 
my  want  of  courage,  of  energy,  of  self- 
discipline,  my  blindness  to  noble  motives, 
my  impatient  desire  for  momentary  plea- 
sure ;  but  I  did  not  make  myself  thus.  These 
were  the  qualities  I  found  in  myself,  and 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        35 

it  seemed  that  I  was  chastened  for  being 
what  I  was  made  to  be.  Worst  of  all,  I 
was  given  an  instinct  for  justice,  and  a 
sense  of  what  was  fair,  and  I  could  see  no 
justice  in  what  had  befallen  me.  It  was 
as  though  one  had  seen  that  a  child  loved 
something  bright  and  sweet,  and  that  one 
had  then  left  at  its  elbow  some  fragrant 
and  fair  potion,  with  a  deadly  and  hurtful 
drug  intermingled,  had  watched  it  drink  the 
evil  thing,  and  then  mocked  at  its  suffer- 
ings. For  here  lay  my  woe,  that  I  was 
given  so  passionate  a  love  for  all  that  was 
beautiful  and  desirable,  that  I  had  no 
deeper  impulse  to  turn  to  what  was  nobler 
and  greater;  and  that  by  following  my  in- 
stinct I  had  come  into  stony  places  and 
desert  wilds.  And  yet  the  destruction  of 
delight  had  not  sown  in  me  any  seed  of 
nobler  things.  Rather  my  hours  were 
spent  in  retracing  the  old  joys.     I  called 


36        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

to  remembrance  my  song.  Neither  had  I 
learned,  as  some  grim  philosophers  affirm 
that  they  learned,  that  these  delights  of  life 
are  vanity.  Joy  and  peace,  the  sights  and 
sounds  of  nature,  the  pleasures  of  work  and 
life,  books  and  art  and  music — these  things 
all  seemed  to  me  infinitely  more  desirable 
than  before.  I  was  as  one  that  lay  in  a 
prison,  and  peering  through  the  bars  saw 
love  and  health,  warmth  and  light,  stream 
past  outside,  with  movement  and  laughter, 
warmth  and  perfume.  There  was  no  change 
in  these  sweet  things;  the  change,  the  bitter 
change,  was  in  me.  Yet  it  was  not  that  I 
would  not  have  learned  if  I  could.  If  I 
could  but  have  felt  within  myself  the  quick- 
ening of  some  nobler  and  freer  spirit,  I 
should  have  counted  my  loss  to  be  gain. 
Yet  the  days  flowed  past,  and  I  sank  each 
hour  deeper  in  indolence  and  futile  regret 
and  despair.     Was  this  the  message  of  God 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        37 

to  the  soul?  I  would  have  trusted  and 
loved  Him  if  I  could,  but  between  us  there 
was  a  great  gulf  fixed,  and  I  could  not 
bridge  it. 

What  then  remained?  A  life,  however 
small  and  circumscribed,  to  be  lived,  souls 
to  whom  I  was  linked  by  love  and  by 
associations,  duties  to  be  performed,  words 
to  be  spoken,  deeds  to  be  done.  And  a 
sense,  remote  and  dim,  but  there,  that  God 
had  not  deserted  me,  though  He  hid  His 
face  from  me  for  a  season.  How  this  re- 
mained and  survived  I  knew  not.  All  that 
I  had  lost,  all  that  I  might  have  done  if 
I  had  been  purer  and  stronger  of  will,  they 
pierced  me  like  thorns.  But  I  knew  that 
as  His  Will  seems  to  be  for  others  that  they 
should  ascend  from  strength  to  strength,  in 
light  and  love  and  joy,  so  His  Will  for  me 
was  that  I  should  descend  into  self-con- 
tempt, and  despair,  and  humiliation,  but 


38        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

that  the  end  was  not  yet.  And  I  recog- 
nised, too,  in  myself  a  power,  undimmed 
and  eager,  for  casting  off  the  shadows  of 
grief.  Even  now  the  remembrance  of  the 
dark  years  I  have  passed  has  no  power 
over  me.  They  brighten  in  retrospect;  the 
beautiful  things  remain,  the  dark  hours  are 
swept  away  like  crumbling  ashes. 


IV 

One  of  the  most  melancholy  of  my  flights, 
in  my  time  of  trouble,  was  to  Ashbourne 
— melancholy,  because  it  was  exactly  the 
kind  of  place  which  in  health  I  should  have 
enjoyed  best — a  beautiful  town,  its  great 
church,  its  gabled  school,  its  fine  Georgian 
houses  all  speaking  of  a  fine  tradition,  a 
civic  pride;  and  then  it  is  close  to  Dove- 
dale,  that  craggy  valley,  so  dear  to  Isaac 
Walton,  with  all  its  loveliness  of  minature 
crag  and  hanging  wroodland.  There,  too, 
three  faithful  friends  and  delightful  com- 
panions came  to  me,  one  by  one,  to  cheer 
my  loneliness.  But  I  was  there  assailed  by 
a  poignancy  of  melancholy  which  is  inde- 
scribable. We  were  lodged  in  a  fine  old 
country  mansion,  now  an  inn,  at  the  end 

39 


40        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

of  the  street.  There  was  a  rookery  close 
to  my  bedroom,  and  I  used  to  awake  early 
on  those  fine  spring  mornings,  the  clear 
light  filtering  in  through  the  window  cur- 
tains, and  hear  the  drowsy  cawing  of  the 
rooks  answering  each  other  from  their 
perches,  and  toss  from  side  to  side,  hour 
by  hour,  in  an  agony  of  despair. 

I  went  there  again  the  other  day,  and 
had  the  same  room.  Not  only  did  I  ex- 
perience no  morbid  overshadowing  of  gloom, 
but  the  busy  and  contented  present  out- 
lined itself  with  radiant  gratitude  on  the 
dark  background  of  memory;  more  than 
that !  To  my  inexpressible  surprise,  I  could 
not  recall  or  recover  my  grief.  I  could 
just  remember  that  I  had  been  plunged  in 
sorrow;  but  in  all  the  walks  that  I  took, 
which  I  know  were  then  taken  in  heaviness 
and  indifference,  I  remembered  all  the  de- 
tails, with   extraordinary  vividness,   while 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        41 

memory  persisted  in  representing  my  pre- 
vious visit  as  a  time  of  radiant  and  un- 
alloyed happiness.  I  went  to  the  church, 
where  I  had  attended  a  service,  racked  by 
mental  torture,  and  it  seemed  familiar  and 
sweet.  I  walked  down  Dovedale;  and 
though  I  had  done  so  on  the  former  occa- 
sion with  listless  fatigue,  yet  the  mind 
continued  to  recall  the  scene  as  if  it  had 
been  viewed  with  zest  and  delight.  What 
a  marvellous  alchemy  that  is  which  can 
eliminate  all  the  dark  shadows  of  the  past 
as  if  they  had  never  existed,  and  can  pre- 
sent one  with  a  picture  of  the  scene,  all 
touched  with  a  golden  light  of  happy  remi- 
niscence; can  unconsciously  transmute  all 
the  sad  values,  and  substitute  for  the 
sombre  endurance,  through  which  all  was 
viewed,  a  strange  reality  of  happiness  and 
content.  Day  after  day  I  used  then  to  say 
to  myself  that  life  could  not  be  endured 


42        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

under  such  conditions;  the  smallest  acci- 
dent, such  as  a  rain-storm  or  a  delay,  used 
to  fill  me  with  a  petulant  agitation;  the 
smallest  trace  of  dissatisfaction  on  the  part 
of  my  companions  seemed  an  insuperable 
difficulty;  yet  it  required  a  deliberate  effort 
of  the  reason  to  recall  them  now,  and  the 
instinctive  recollection  of  the  whole  was  one 
of  easy  pleasure  and  delightful  experience. 
This  power  of  the  mind  to  reject  all  sad- 
ness in  retrospect  is  surely  a  very  hopeful 
and  wonderful  thing.  It  shows  one  that 
experience,  however  tragical,  has  no  power 
to  wound  or  cicatrise.  If  memory  survives 
the  mortal  frame,  there  need  be  nothing 
which  it  need  dread  to  regard.  Failures, 
sorrows,  even  sins  may  be  seen  in  that 
blessed  light  as  things  which  contributed 
their  part  to  the  shaping  of  the  soul.  One 
will  not  even  regret  them,  for  they  are  but 
signs  of  imperfection,  steps  of  a  heavenly 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        43 

ladder  which  it  is  well  to  have  climbed.  If 
one  thinks,  perhaps,  of  wrongs  done  to 
others,  angers,  peevish  meannesses,  vexa- 
tions, stupidities,  one  would  suppose  that 
they  at  least  could  not  be  glorified;  but  if 
one  feels  that  the  memory  of  the  person 
wronged  has  not  only  forgotten  the  sting 
of  our  misdemeanour,  but  has  actually 
built  the  poor  incidents  into  the  clear- 
walled  and  glowing  palace  of  memory,  what 
need  is  there  to  regret  them?  We  need 
take  no  heed  of  what  is  past  and  done  with ; 
all  has  contributed  its  delicate  share  to  the 
treasure  of  experience,  and  memory  has 
transfigured  it  into  something  rich  and 
strange.  It  is  not  that  we  deceive  our- 
selves by  this  radiant  retrospect.  We 
rather  deceive  ourselves  when  we  fret  and 
agonise  over  the  present  and  its  troubles. 
The  needed  process  is  at  work,  the  neces- 
sary discipline  is  being  gone  through.    Not 


44        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

only  will  all  be  well,  it  will  be  actually 
glorious  to  retrace.  It  is  the  work,  this 
blessed  transformation,  of  the  inner  soul 
which  dwells  within  us,  which  is  high,  gen- 
erous, joyful,  and  indomitable.  It  is  the 
reason  and  the  imagination  which  play  us 
false;  the  inner  soul  is  wiser,  and  like  an 
auriferous  stream,  drifts  the  precious  metal 
into  every  rift  and  cavity. 

The  strange  thing  is  that  our  happy  hours 
pass  so  swiftly,  so  indistinctly  at  the  time, 
the  lazy  contentment  of  the  mood  finding 
every  trivial  detail  abundantly  sweet.  When 
we  have  to  face  grief,  how  slow  and  leaden- 
footed  are  the  creeping  hours;  how  sorely 
we  are  tempted  to  think  of  happiness  as 
the  delusion,  and  of  sorrow  as  the  bitter 
truth!  Yet  the  time  passes;  and  we  turn 
at  some  angle  of  the  road  and  look  back, 
surveying  the  quiet  valley  through  which 
wTe  have  passed  so  miserably  with  bleeding 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        45 

feet  and  gasping  breath.  And  behold,  the 
heart  has  thrown  all  that  aside,  has  touched 
with  prismatic  hues  all  that  it  is  good  to 
have  suffered;  thereby  showing,  if  I  but 
interpret  it  rightly,  that  we  could  not  do 
without  it,  and  that  even  in  our  hours  of 
darkest  blindness  we  have  never  strayed 
out  of  the  reach  of  the  guiding  and  saving 
Hand. 


One  of  my  worst  fears  during  much  of  my 
illness  was  that  of  a  sudden  collapse  of  my 
mental  faculties.  There  were  times  when 
I  could  only  sit  helpless,  with  the  horror 
rising  and  growing  upon  me,  overwhelming 
everything  with  an  agony  that  brimmed  my 
being.  What  if  it  all  boiled  up  like  a  devil's 
cauldron,  and  left  me  raving  and  frenzied? 
There  were  times  when  I  felt  that  if  any 
one  came  upon  me  suddenly,  I  could  hardly 
have  framed  an  intelligible  phrase;  yet  if 
it  ever  did  so  happen,  I  found  I  could  al- 
ways respond,  close  the  lid,  so  to  speak,  of 
the  throbbing  and  seething  vessel,  and  talk 
almost  as  usual.  Yet  the  fear  was  so 
strong,  that  I  carried  about  with  me  all 

that  time  an  envelope  of  directions  as  to 
46 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff       47 

what  was  to  be  done  in  the  case  of  a  col- 
lapse, and  it  was  a  blessed  day  when  I  felt 
myself  entitled  to  put  the  dreadful  missive 
in  the  flames ! 

I  have  often  wondered  whether  I  could 
in  any  way  have  controlled  and  mastered 
that  fear;  it  was  an  unreal  thing  in  a  way, 
because  my  faculties  were  in  no  way  im- 
paired; and  yet  the  tortured  mind  enacted 
over  and  over  again,  with  a  dark  fertility 
of  imagination,  the  possibilities  that  might 
be  in  store  for  me.  But  the  will  seemed 
powerless  to  help  me. 

Fear  is  a  very  strange  and  terrible  part 
of  our  human  inheritance.  But  the  raison 
d'etre  of  it  is,  I  suppose,  the  instinct  to 
live.  If  it  were  not  for  fear,  the  fear  of 
death,  how  often  should  wTe  tend  to  end 
our  miseries  altogether,  and  how  little 
effort  should  we  make  in  the  face  of  danger 
to  extricate  ourselves.      Fear,  at  a  crisis, 


48        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

evokes  the  swiftest  kind  of  inventiveness, 
and  it  is,  I  suppose,  the  quality  which  more 
than  any  other  keeps  us  alive. 

But  what  a  sickening  hand  it  lays  on 
our  joys !  If  one  is  surprised  in  a  moment 
of  joy  by  a  sudden  fear,  not  only  does  it 
sweep  away  the  joy,  but  it  makes  one 
wonder  that  one  could  ever  have  had  the 
heart  or  the  courage  to  enjoy  anything. 
Yet  it  is  a  very  specific  thing.  The  know- 
ledge that  we  must  some  time  die  does  not 
trouble  one  in  the  least  in  ordinary  life. 
And  even  men  who  are  stricken  by  mortal 
disease,  when  they  have  once  got  used  to 
the  thought,  seem  to  lose  their  fear,  and 
even  to  have  the  pleasure  of  the  secure 
moment  heightened  by  its  presence.  The 
strange  fact  is  this,  that  though  I  have 
never  known  any  incident  in  the  world, 
however  tragic  or  appalling,  come  up  to  the 
fear  with  which  one  anticipates  it,  yet  one 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        49 

cannot  learn  to  control  fear.  I  am  think- 
ing as  I  write  of  a  tragic  event  that  once 
came  on  me  very  suddenly.  If  I  had  been 
told  beforehand  that  it  was  impending,  I 
could  not  have  borne  it;  but  when  it  did 
come,  I  wTent  through  it  with  a  curious 
serenity,  equal  to  all  emergencies. 

The  more  one  indulges  fear,  the  more  one 
practises  it,  the  more  one  allows  oneself  to 
entertain  it,  the  worse  it  grows.  It  is  better 
not  to  look  tragedies  in  the  face  unless  one 
is  obliged.  One  cannot  school  oneself  into 
indifference  so;  and  one  meets  fear  better, 
the  more  joyful  and  indifferent  one  has 
allowed  oneself  to  be.  There  is  a  curious 
instinct  in  humanity  to  hold  back  from  joy. 
It  is  that  which  comes  out  so  strongly  in 
the  old  Greek  conception  of  the  jealousy 
felt  by  the  gods  against  the  over-fortunate 
man.  In  the  Greek  theory  of  life  the  suc- 
cessful  man  is  first  joyful,  and  then  his 


50        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

joy  takes  on  an  insolent  quality;  and  that 
is  the  sign  that  what  they  called  Ate — 
fatality — is  just  ahead.  One  sees  the  same 
instinct  in  the  Komans  and  in  the  Jews, 
The  well-schooled  mind,  says  Horace,  is 
timid  in  prosperity;  the  Hebrew  Psalmist 
says  that  the  fear  of  the  Lord  is  the  be- 
ginning of  wisdom.  This  fear  is  not  the 
fear  which  restrains  from  sin,  but  rather 
the  fear  that  prosperity  holds  within  it- 
self the  seed  of  calamity — the  higher  the 
triumph  the  deeper  the  fall! 

The  truth  is  that  we  know,  though  we 
often  forget  it,  that  we  are  set  in  the 
world  to  get  experience;  and  when  we  are 
summing  up  the  life  of  some  great  man, 
we  do  not  ask  ourselves  if  he  was  con- 
tinually prosperous,  so  much  as  whether, 
in  his  life,  he  had  the  due  and  inevitable 
proportion  of  failure  and  suffering. 

There  is  then   no   real   reason  why  we 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        51 

should  fear  whatever  lies  before  us;  and 
instead  of  yielding  to  fear,  with  the  in- 
stinctive sense  that  we  are  doing  something 
which  is  vaguely  righteous,  propitiating  in 
some  way  the  wrath  of  Heaven,  as  a  dog 
that  is  angrily  called  throws  itself  on  its 
back  in  a  helpless  abandonment  of  de- 
precation, we  ought  rather  to  distract  our- 
selves in  every  way,  and  exorcise  fear  by 
work,  by  occupation,  by  studied  joy.  "  I 
have  had  many  tragedies  in  my  life,"  said 
an  old  statesman,  "  and  the  worst  were 
those  which  never  happened." 

I  shall  speak  elsewhere  of  the  two  strains 
of  life  that  are  so  strangely  intermingled 
in  every  one  of  us — the  outer  rational  life 
of  convention  and  habit  and  daily  inter- 
course; and  the  inner,  secret,  moving  cur- 
rent of  the  soul.  It  is  the  rational  and 
imaginative  faculty  which  indulges  fear; 
and  therefore  it  is  well  to  live  as  far  as 


52         Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

one  can  in  the  inner  life,  the  solitary, 
steady,  untroubled  life  of  the  soul.  That 
is  the  secret  of  that  strange  and  notable 
movement  called  Christian  Science,  and 
indeed  of  all  quietist  and  mystical  move- 
ments. Christian  Science  is  much  encum- 
bered by  false  and  even  fatuous  metaphysic ; 
but  the  essence  and  strength  of  it  is  that 
its  votaries  constantly  practise  diving,  so 
to  speak,  through  the  outer,  busy,  fretted, 
rational  life  of  the  temporary  and  finite 
human  faculties,  into  the  deep  serene  inner 
current  of  the  soul.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
profess  the  confused  dogmas  of  Christian 
Science  in  order  to  do  this.  But  to  do  the 
thing  itself  is  the  only  way  to  triumph  over 
the  dreary  and  entangling  impediments  of 
bodily  life.  The  mistake  is  to  try  to  pre- 
tend that  the  outer  evil  is  not  there  at  all. 
It  is  there,  it  is  urgent  and  strong,  and 
for  all  its  discomfort  it  does  many  won- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        53 

derful  things  for  us.  But  it  is  only  a 
passing  thing,  like  the  water-break  upon 
the  stream's  surface,  and  the  permanent 
crystalline  current  of  peace  is  beneath  it 
all  the  time.  The  real  conquest  is  to  per- 
ceive the  true  values.  If  we  are  deluded 
by  the  phantoms  of  respectability,  conven- 
tion, ambition,  success,  comfort,  property, 
we  shall  continue  to  fear,  because  fear  is 
knit  up  with  these  things.  But  if  we  real- 
ise that  simplicity  and  generosity  and  joy, 
loving  relations  and  true  comradeship,  are 
the  true  life,  then  fear  ebbs  away,  because 
it  is  not  knit  up  with  these  things;  and  at 
last  we  come  to  perceive  that  there  is  no 
tunnel  so  dark  and  long  through  which  the 
soul  does  not  pass  unscathed  and  un- 
daunted, and  comes  out,  pale  perhaps  and 
a  little  wearied,  but  smiling,  into  the  day- 
light at  the  end. 


VI 

The  pain  of  it  all  was  torturing  enough, 
but  it  was  not  crushing.  It  did  not  cow 
the  innermost  spirit.  I  come  back  to  life, 
not  afraid  of  it — afraid  indeed  of  the  pain 
itself  and  the  suffering,  but  not  afraid  of 
life.  The  sails  torn  a  little,  but  with  more 
wind  than  ever  in  them.  Because  though 
there  were  indeed  days  wholly  of  pain,  when 
it  seemed  as  though  one  had  found  the  very 
deepest  thing  in  life,  there  was  always  a 
possibility  in  the  background,  a  blessed 
possibility  that  the  strain  might  be  re- 
laxed ;  and  that  life  was  there  all  the  time, 
outside  the  dark  tower  and  the  room  where 
the  punctual  rack  lay  waiting. 

And  I  come  back  with  a  deeper  curiosity 

54 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        55 

than  ever  as  to  what  has  relieved  the  pain. 
I  cannot  pretend  that  I  ever  felt  at  the 
time  as  though  love  lay  behind  it ;  but  there 
was  force  and  motion  behind  it.  The  horror 
of  it  was  that  the  pain  seemed  to  reach 
me,  and  to  stop  there;  it  did  not  seem  to 
be  passing  through  me  onwards,  but  as  if 
it  pushed  me  against  an  ultimate  wall  of 
things.  That  was  the  weakness  of  my  case 
all  along,  that  I  never  handed  things  on; 
they  came  to  me,  I  received  them,  and  there 
they  stayed.  That  was  how  I  was  missing 
the  meaning  of  life,  because  the  meaning 
of  life  seems  to  be  involved  in  this,  that 
one  must  not  wish  to  keep  things,  but  to 
hand  them  on.  While  the  best  thing  that 
came  to  me,  my  song,  as  the  Psalmist  said, 
had  been  uttered  for  my  own  joy,  and  not 
that  I  might  sing  it  for  other  ears.  Now 
the  sorrow  lies  in  this,  that  I  do  perceive, 
as  clearly  as  it  can  be  perceived,  that  the 


56        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

strength  and  significance  of  life  lies,  not  in 
the  apprehension  or  the  enjoyment  of  fine 
and  beautiful  things  and  thoughts,  but  in 
the  desire  to  share  them  with  others,  or 
better  still,  to  give  them  away.  And  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  more  clearly  one  per- 
ceives the  lights  and  hues  and  shapes  of 
things,  the  charm  and  delicacy  of  them, 
their  values  and  their  deficiencies  even,  the 
more  difficult  it  becomes  to  part  with  them. 
It  was  thus  that  I  had  lived;  and  all  that 
I  seemed  to  do  for  others  was  done  not 
for  the  sake  of  others,  but  just  to  give  my- 
self the  tranquillity  I  required  to  see  and 
to  enjoy.  In  my  twenty  years  of  teaching 
it  had  been  just  thus — that  I  had  laboured 
for  peace  and  order  and  beauty  and  purity, 
not  because  I  passionately  desired  that 
others  should  taste  of  such  things,  but  that 
I  might  taste  them  myself  in  security  and 
peace.     I  could  recognise  that  to  lose  my- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        57 

self  would  be  to  find  myself;  but  how  was 
that  to  be  achieved?  I  saw  others  courage- 
ously and  frankly  doing  their  supposed 
duty,  however  unpleasant.  But  that  very 
often  never  seemed  to  touch  their  inner  heart 
at  all,  because,  like  myself,  they  did  not 
seem  to  give  themselves  away  thus,  but  to 
enhance  their  own  indomitable  solitariness. 
And  on  the  other  hand  one  saw  people 
who,  without  any  theory  of  duty  or  justice 
or  right,  gave  themselves  and  their  work 
away  from  hour  to  hour,  simply  and 
sweetly,  because  it  was  their  way  to  do 
it,  not  their  choice.  My  old  nurse,  who 
died  lately  after  being  long  bedridden,  and 
but  half  conscious  of  the  passage  of  the 
hours,  was  one  of  these  people;  she  never 
thought  of  happiness  at  all,  or  even  con- 
sciously of  duty ;  she  simply  gave  her  whole 
life  and  activity  and  thought  to  those  whom 
she   loved.      She   had   a   shrewd   and   not 


58        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

wholly  tolerant  judgment  of  others,  but  she 
made  no  comparisons  of  them  with  herself. 
She  just  went  about  her  own  business,  had 
no  desire  of  ease  or  pleasure:  if  one  of  us 
was  ill,  it  was  just  her  joy  and  delight  to 
tend  us,  to  bear  every  detailed  task  in 
mind.  It  was  not  self-surrender,  because 
it  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  will  at  all. 
It  was  not  beneficence  or  benevolence,  it 
was  simply  love;  and  thus  it  was  the  most 
beautiful  and  perfect  thing  in  the  world, 
because  there  was  nothing  calculated  or 
forced  about  it;  it  flowed  as  the  stream 
flows,  it  was  sweet  at  the  rose  is  sweet. 
It  seemed  like  the  beating  of  the  world's 
very  heart,  like  the  breath  of  its  inmost 
soul. 

I  suppose  then  that  the  mistake  I  may 
make  about  even  my  own  great  and  dark 
experience  is  that  I  am  tempted  to  think, 
"  What  have  I  gained  by  it?  "     It  seemed 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        59 

at  the  time  as  though  one  only  radiated 
pain  among  all  who  saw  one  suffer  and 
could  not  help.  Even  if  one  tried  to  take 
a  larger  sweep,  and  ask,  "  Was  there  gain 
anywhere,  was  one  even  bearing  so  much 
of  the  weight,  the  inevitable  sorrow  of  the 
world?  was  one,  by  drinking  so  much  of 
the  bitter  cup,  diminishing  for  the  rest 
some  of  the  pain  which  there  must  be  in 
life?";  there  seemed  no  answer  to  that. 
It  was  the  not  knowing  whether  it  had  any 
bearing  at  all  on  the  world  or  oneself  that 
made  it  all  so  hard  to  bear.  Without  that 
knowledge,  the  pain  seemed  such  an  un- 
imaginable waste  of  life.  Even  to  know 
that  it  was  a  waste  would  have  been 
something,  for  then  it  could  at  least 
have  been  co-ordinated.  But  what  one 
hoped  was  of  course  that  it  might  be  but 
the  slag  of  the  furnace,  a  thing  ugly  and 
homely   enough,    which   had   had   its   use, 


60        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

and  might  have  it  again,  but  without 
which  the  flame  could  not  give  up  its 
secret,  or  melt  the  frozen  metal  for  the 
service  of  men. 


VII 

But  there  was  one  blessed  fact  which 
dawned  upon  me  slowly  in  the  evil  days. 
When  I  was  at  my  worst,  inaction  and 
action  alike  were  poisonous,  thought  and 
emotion  and  memory  were  a  sort  of  fevered 
agony,  the  smallest  decision  was  a  torture. 
I  seemed  to  myself  like  a  man  who  has 
wandered  heedlessly  along  the  rocks  of 
some  iron-bound  coast,  with  the  precipices 
above  him  on  one  hand  and  the  sullen  sea 
on  the  other  hand.  I  had  reached,  as  it 
were,  a  ledge,  from  which  advance  and  re- 
treat seemed  equally  impossible;  the  cliff 
overhead,  with  its  black  and  dripping  crags, 
was  too  steep  to  climb,  and  I  seemed  to 
be  waiting  for  the  onrush  of  some  huge 
and  silent  billow  from  the  bitter  surge  be- 

61 


62        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

neath.  I  was  at  bay  at  last,  helpless  and 
hopeless.  But  behind  it  all  I  never  some- 
how lost  the  sense  that  though  every  chan- 
nel of  perception  and  thought,  every  nerve 
of  reflection  and  decision  seemed  choked 
and  palsied,  there  was  yet  some  inner 
citadel  where  my  life  and  spirit  were  free 
and  unassailed.  It  was  the  machinery,  the 
bodily  pain,  that  was  disordered,  not  the 
innermost  spring  of  life.  I  had  never  been 
able  before  to  draw  any  fine  line  between 
body  and  mind  and  spirit.  They  had  all 
jogged  cheerfully  along  together,  had  sor- 
rowed in  concert,  or  uttered  their  song  in 
unison.  But  now  I  did  indeed  perceive 
that  there  was  something  within,  which 
was  not  only  unaltered  by  all  these  woes, 
but  actually  unalterable;  something  on 
which  the  rage  of  all  the  elements  might 
expend  itself,  and  yet  not  maim  or  wound 
or   crush    it   in    the   smallest  degree.     The 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        63 

joy,  the  emotion,  the  energy,  the  spring  of 
life  were  there,  a  divine  unquenchable 
flame — something  which  might  be  released 
from  the  body,  but  which  could  not  be  de- 
stroyed or  dissolved.  More  than  that;  it 
was  a  principle  which,  in  spite  of  all  my 
carelessness  and  selfishness  and  love  of 
pleasure  on  the  one  hand,  all  my  weari- 
ness and  discomfort  and  frailty  on  the 
other,  was  still  essentially  pure  and  bright, 
courageous  and  strong.  It  could  not  ex- 
press itself  in  any  mortal  terms  of  hope, 
or  activity,  or  happiness, — every  effort  to 
do  so  set  the  diseased  nerves  throbbing  and 
tingling  with  misery  insupportable — but  it 
was  there  for  all  that,  in  its  pristine  and 
ancient  strength. 

I  cannot  say  that  this  gave  me  any 
strength  or  courage;  it  was  only  a  cer- 
tainty, a  fact  which  I  could  not  doubt;  it 
was  the  essential  fact  of  existence,  behind 


64        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

which  I  could  not  go,  the  one  thing  which 
even  death  could  not  silence  or  terminate. 
There  was  no  question  of  effort  or  of  pa- 
tience here ;  that  one  thing  alone,  that  vital 
essence  of  joy  and  strength,  I  could  not 
touch  nor  change.  It  was  something  even 
deeper  than  self,  for  it  had  no  desires  un- 
fulfilled, or  hopes  unrealised;  it  existed,  it 
saw,  it  knew.  It  could  not  flash  its  secret 
back  into  the  tired  and  wearied  brain,  or 
revive  the  drooping  limb;  but  it  was  some- 
thing permanent  and  everlasting.  It  had 
no  sense  of  struggle  or  strife;  it  was  not 
concerned  with  duty  or  honour,  shame  or 
pain — it  simply  existed.  I  have  said  that 
the  thought  gave  me  no  joy  or  help — it 
was  even  the  other  way,  because  I  knew 
that  oblivion  was  not  possible.  There  was 
hardly  a  day  during  those  months  when  I 
would  not  have  welcomed  death,  sudden 
and   swift   death, — anything   to   still    that 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        65 

ceaseless  pain  that  gnawed  like  the  Prome- 
thean vulture  at  the  heart;  but  I  knew  that 
it  would  but  be  like  the  hunting  of  some 
wild  thing  out  of  its  hole,  to  slip  away 
into  the  brake.  I  had  before  lightly  held 
the  current  belief  about  immortality,  and 
had  vaguely  dreamed  of  the  soul  as  a  thing 
in  unsubstantial  human  form,  the  thoughts 
and  occupations  of  which  I  could  not 
imagine.  The  thought  of  heaven  as  a  con- 
course of  untiring  vocalists,  with  God  as 
a  complacent  auditor,  had  long  seemed  in- 
credibly puerile — I  had  thought  of  the  after- 
life as  a  place  of  growth  and  energy  and 
experience;  but  now  I  could  not  feel  even 
that,  because  the  central  principle,  free 
alike  from  matter  and  from  intellect,  ap- 
peared to  be  something  so  much  older  and 
wiser  and  more  absolute  than  anything  I 
had  ever  conceived.  It  was  not  that  it 
could  inform  the  intellect,  or  react  upon 


66        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

the  mind;  they  still  seemed  condemned  to 
guess  and  wonder,  and  approach  truth 
tentatively  and  experimentally.  But  the 
soul  was  above  all  that,  though  it  could 
not  make  its  secret  clear  to  me. 

How  can  I  express  the  inexpressible? 
No  analogies  will  make  it  clear.  The  soul 
seemed  to  inhabit  my  body  as  a  man  in- 
habits a  house;  but  though  the  house 
seemed  ruinous  and  tottering  to  its  fall, 
squalid  and  darkly  shuttered,  the  inhabi- 
tant seemed  in  no  way  disconcerted  or 
concerned,  but  preparing,  if  need  was,  to 
leave  it.  I  had  no  sort  of  hope  of  recover- 
ing my  health  or  activity.  I  simply  looked 
forward  to  some  hideous  collapse  of  brain 
and  body  alike;  and  meanwhile  the  in- 
habitant held  on  his  way,  executed  his 
designs,  and  gave  no  hint  of  his  will. 
When  I  reproached  myself  with  my  heed- 
less and  trivial  life,  my  foolish  passing-by 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff       67 

of  opportunities,  my  dulness  and  perver- 
sity, the  soul  said  nothing  either  of  comfort 
or  of  blame.  I  did  not  feel  that  it  judged 
me  harshly,  or  made  excuses  for  me;  it 
seemed  occupied  with  other  things,  and 
serene,  waiting  till  it  could  again  look  out 
from  the  unclosed  shutters  of  the  mind, 
perfectly  equable  and  undisturbed. 

And  now  that  my  activity  has  returned 
to  me,  and  the  brain  after  its  long  frost 
seems  all  blossoming  with  ideas  and  emo- 
tions and  interests,  I  feel  that  the  soul  is 
still  there,  unchanged,  unscathed.  It  does 
not  seem  to  have  either  lost  or  gained  by 
the  experience;  body  and  mind  alike  have 
learned  lessons  of  vigilance  and  prudence, 
not  to  waste  their  powers  prodigally,  to 
take  up  deliberate  occupations  of  varying 
stress,  to  rest  upon  the  oars.  But  the  soul 
seems  to  smile  at  all  these  concerns,  as  it 
smiled  at  the  disasters  of  sickness  and  de- 


68         Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

spair,  and  to  hold  upon  its  own  course.  It 
is  like  a  bird  of  the  woodland  that  is  caged; 
it  eats  and  drinks,  it  hops  from  perch  to 
perch,  it  trills  its  song;  but  it  is  content 
to  wait,  and  it  does  not  grieve,  or  flutter 
its  useless  wings. 

I  have  told  all  this  experience  as  simply 
as  I  can.  It  may  not  be  an  unusual  one; 
it  may  be  that  others  may  have  from  the 
earliest  dawn  of  consciousness  this  sense 
of  difference  between  the  bodily  and  in- 
tellectual life,  and  the  life  of  the  soul.  I 
can  only  say  that  the  experience  was  new 
to  me,  that  it  was  infinitely  surprising  and 
startling,  and  that  it  has  survived  the  re- 
turn to  normal  health  and  activity.  If  I 
am  asked  what  it  has  brought  me,  I  can 
only  say  that  it  has  brought  me  a  sense 
of  permanent  truth.  It  has  not  given  me 
new  motives  for  conduct,  new  ideals,  new 
desires.     I  find  myself  much  as  I  was  be- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        69 

fore,  desiring  friendship  and  close  relation 
with  others,  eager  for  work,  susceptible  to 
beauty,  fond  of  delightful  thoughts.  The 
sights  and  sounds  of  earth  are  as  dear  as 
ever.  The  soft  shining  of  the  sun  through 
the  orchard,  the  distant  sweep  of  woodland 
and  valley,  the  old  house,  with  its  gables 
and  lichened  tiles — all  these  please  my 
sense  as  before.  The  fading  of  the  even- 
ing light,  the  star  that  peeps  from  the 
thickening  gloom,  the  sighing  of  the  wind 
among  the  pines,  the  stream  rippling  over 
its  stony  channel — I  think  they  are  all  more 
dear  than  ever.  The  joy  of  life  has  come 
back  to  me  with  a  freshness  and  a  sweet- 
ness that  I  never  knew.  The  pain  and  the 
weariness  are  gone,  and  have  been  as  a 
bath  in  some  fresh  tide  that  seems  to  have 
washed  my  mind  clean  of  all  its  nebulous 
woes;  but  what  I  lacked  before,  a  sense  of 
everlastingness,    of   permanence,    of   being 


70        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

impervious  to  change  and  death,  that  has 
come  to  me  in  fullest  measure.  It  has  not 
at  all  enlightened  the  mystery  of  life.  I 
understand  no  more  than  I  did  the  secrets 
of  love  and  beauty,  of  pain  and  death;  but 
I  know  that  I  can  wait — indeed,  more  than 
that,  I  know  that  I  am,  and  shall  be,  and 
cannot  cease  to  be.  The  adjustment  of 
relations  with  others,  with  time,  with  space, 
with  matter,  is  all  as  dark  as  ever;  but  I 
know  that  nothing  can  be  hurried  or  short- 
ened, but  that  every  single  step  of  the  road 
must  be  trodden,  and  trodden  alone;  and  I 
feel  too  that  in  no  other  way  could  I  have 
learned  this,  except  by  entering  a  darkness 
in  which  every  faculty  of  life  and  joy,  every 
tie  with  the  world,  every  energy  and  ac- 
tivity not  only  failed  me,  but  became  one 
mass  as  it  were  of  tortured  fibres,  so  that 
there  was  neither  outlet  or  relief.  And  so 
far  from  thinking  of  the  days  of  misery 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        71 

with  a  shuddering  horror,  I  am  grateful 
for  every  touch  of  pain,  every  sleepless 
hour  of  agony,  every  moment  of  abject  and 
unutterable  fear.  Thus  and  in  no  other 
way  could  the  fact  come  home  to  me  that 
there  is  something  in  and  behind  every 
individual  life  which  is  absolutely  there, 
can  be  hurt  by  no  suffering,  and  touched 
by  no  decay. 


VIII 

It  was  in  these  days  of  recovered  health 
that  I  had  another  great  lesson  in  the  same 
matter,  which  came  like  the  blow  of  a 
hammer  that  drives  a  nail  home.  I  was 
asked  to  go  and  see  an  old  friend  who  had 
been  very  ill — his  life  indeed  having  been 
despaired  of.  He  had  won  his  way  back 
to  a  little  strength,  but  it  was  known  that 
he  could  not  live  long.  I  went  to  see  him 
in  a  very  nervous  and  solemn  frame  of 
mind;  though  I  knew  it  was  unreal,  and 
was  ashamed  of  myself  for  my  solemnity, 
yet  I  could  not  divest  myself  of  the  instinc- 
tive feeling  that  it  was  an  occasion.  In 
vain  I  told  myself  that  what  the  sick  most 
value  is  to  be  talked  to  quite  naturally  and 

easily  of  normal  things  and  ordinary  in- 

72 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        73 

terests,  with  no  reference  to  the  illness  that 
besets  them.  I  knew  well  from  my  own 
experience  the  relief  of  being  in  the  com- 
pany of  people  who  ignored  one's  unhappy 
condition,  and  talked  as  if  all  was  well. 
Still,  that  strange  sort  of  dramatic  instinct, 
which  many  of  us  have  and  which  is  so 
hard  to  get  rid  of,  kept  suggesting  a  solemn 
scene  and  appropriate  remarks. 

The  sick  man  was  lying  in  a  room  on 
the  ground-floor  looking  out  into  a  garden. 
I  was  very  much  shocked  at  his  deathly 
appearance,  the  lines  of  pain  about  his 
eyes  and  brow,  his  fallen  cheek,  his  help- 
less hands.  His  voice,  as  he  greeted  me, 
seemed  to  come  from  some  far-off  place, 
and  was  like  the  sighing  of  a  wind.  I 
made  some  commonplace  remark  and  sat 
down.  We  talked  for  a  minute  or  two 
about  indifferent  matters,  when  I  became 
suddenly  aware  that  in  spite  of  the  fact 


74        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

that  the  poor  body  was  nearing  its  dis- 
solution, my  friend  was  there,  behind  that 
strange  mask,  exactly  as  he  had  always 
been,  shrewd,  perceptive,  humorous,  tender- 
hearted. There  was  no  change  in  him 
whatever,  except  that  what  he  said  came 
a  little  more  slowly  than  of  old,  and  that 
breath  failed  him  at  intervals.  So  I  began 
to  speak  of  ordinary  things — of  books,  of 
events,  of  people.  There  he  was  all  the 
time,  his  old  self,  interested,  amused,  clear- 
sighted. He  knew  well  that  his  days  were 
numbered,  and  I  knew  it  too;  and  though 
for  an  instant,  every  now  and  then,  we 
seemed  to  wave  hands  and  smile  across  a 
sundering  and  broadening  flood,  which  must 
soon  divide  us  altogether;  though  I  knew 
that  we  must  henceforth  journey  on  sepa- 
rately, till  the  little  figure  on  the  further 
shore  should  grow  dim  to  my  straining 
eyes,   and  that  he  must  at  last  turn  his 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        75 

back,  and  fare  onwards  into  the  silent  land; 
yet  I  saw  that  his  spirit,  his  thought,  his 
character  were  unchanged  and  unchange- 
able, though  perhaps  a  little  wiser  and 
more  affectionate  through  the  endurance  of 
pain  and  dismay.  And  so  I  discerned  that 
it  was  weak  and  cowardly  to  be  afraid  or 
sad;  the  affair  was  full  of  wonder,  of  truth, 
of  interest  even;  we  were  as  much  to  each 
other  as  we  had  ever  been,  our  spirits  as 
strong  and  vivid  and  untiring,  as  apt  for 
companionship.  I  saw  that  all  that  was 
happening  was  that  he  was  bound  on  a 
journey  which  I  should  some  day  have  to 
take,  and  that  it  was  for  him  but  the  open- 
ing of  a  new  experience,  a  new  range  of 
wonders;  and  that  just  as  life  had  been 
familiar  and  sweet,  so  the  new  life  for  him 
was  to  be  as  full  and  eager.  I  could  make 
no  guess  as  to  what  his  new  experience 
would  be,  but  I  saw  that  it  was  certain  to 


76        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

be  no  more  lacking  in  what  was  pleasant, 
active,  and  exciting  than  the  life  of  the 
world.  When  a  child  is  born  into  the 
world,  one  of  the  most  wonderful  things  to 
watch  is  how  utterly  it  takes  its  surround- 
ings for  granted;  it  nestles  to  its  mother's 
breast,  it  does  not  doubt  that  it  is  welcome ; 
then  as  it  begins  to  perceive  what  is  hap- 
pening to  it,  to  look  round  it  with  intelli- 
gence, it  smiles,  it  understands  love,  it 
imitates  words,  it  claims  the  rights  of  home 
and  family;  it  has  not  the  least  sense  of 
being  a  stranger  or  a  sad  exile;  all  that  it 
sees  belongs  to  it  and  is  its  own.  So  will 
it  be  with  the  new  birth,  I  make  no  doubt; 
we  shall  enter  upon  the  unseen  world  with 
the  same  sense  of  ease  and  security  and 
possession;  there  will  even  be  nothing  to 
learn  at  first,  nothing  to  inquire  about, 
nothing  to  wonder  at.  We  shall  just  fall 
into  our  new  place  unquestioning  and  un- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        77 

questioned;  it  will  be  familiar  and  dear,  our 
own  place,  our  own  circle.  The  child  is 
never  in  any  doubt  as  to  who  it  is  and 
where  it  is;  and  in  the  vast  scheme  of 
things,  our  little  space  of  experience  is 
assured  to  us  for  ever. 

I  do  not  mean  that  there  is  not  the  sense 
of  sorrow  and  grief,  while  we  are  divided; 
that  is  inevitable;  but  there  is  no  room  for 
fear;  the  faithless  thought  is  to  suppose 
that  anything  is  over  or  lost;  it  is  weak 
and  traitorous  to  dwell  in  thought  on  the 
old  serene,  happy  days,  when  strong  and 
eager  life  and  hope  were  ours;  the  hope 
awaits  us,  the  strength  is  undiminished. 

It  was  a  great  and  joyful  moment  when 
I  realised  that  my  friend  was  at  his  post; 
it  was  as  though  he  looked  with  a  smile 
out  of  the  windows  of  a  ruinous  house; 
how  little  it  mattered,  in  the  presence  of 
his  strength  and  serenity,  that  the  earthly 


78        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

business  was  for  a  time  interrupted!  But 
I  saw  that  the  reason  that  the  business  of 
earth  was  pleasant,  was  not  because  the 
acts  and  duties  themselves  had  any  value; 
they  were  only  agreeable  because  of  the 
strength  and  energy  of  the  spirit  that  used 
them,  as  a  child  plays  with  bricks  and  dolls. 
It  is  the  joy  of  the  child,  his  strength,  his 
imagination,  that  puts  meaning  into  his 
toys.  It  is  a  castle  he  is  making,  it  is  a 
child  that  he  is  tending;  the  brick,  the  doll, 
is  but  a  symbol  of  some  inner  thought,  some 
cheerful  design. 

We  said  no  word  that  day  of  parting  or 
of  suffering  or  of  suspended  activity.  We 
just  talked  as  we  had  always  talked,  and 
planned  another  meeting;  and  I  came  away 
with  a  sense  that  outer  things  simply  mat- 
tered not  at  all;  that  I  and  my  friend  had 
all  time  before  us,  all  experience  to  taste, 
all  sorts  of  joys  and  hopes  and  activities 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        79 

to  deal  with.  It  seemed  so  wide  and  un- 
exhausted, the  long  energy  that  stretched 
before  us;  and  in  the  sense  of  immortality, 
which  shone  like  a  great  sun  of  warmth 
and  light  upon  us,  it  seemed  idle  to  regard 
the  little  interruptions  of  sickness  and  even 
death,  that  were  but  as  the  shadows  of  fly- 
ing clouds  upon  a  vast  plain  of  life,  over 
which  passed  a  great  host  of  pilgrims,  some 
loitering,  some  making  haste,  but  with 
friends  on  every  side,  and  happy  concourse, 
and  all  the  little  pleasures  and  interests  of 
the  way,  so  keenly  felt,  so  eagerly  enjoyed ! 


IX 

It  is  not  too  much  then  to  say  that  my 
illness  revealed  to  me  the  existence  of  the 
soul,  an  essence  profound,  imperishable, 
divine,  something  wholly  apart  from  the 
physical  life,  the  intellectual  life,  and  even 
the  moral  life.  It  may  be  said  that  I  ought 
to  have  discovered  this  before,  brought  up 
in  religious  belief  as  I  had  been,  fond  of 
speculating  about  the  problems  of  exist- 
ence, and  interested  or  believing  myself  in- 
terested in  all  that  concerned  the  inner  life. 
But  it  had  escaped  me  for  all  that,  I  had 
in  reality  lived  a  very  spectatorial  life,  de- 
lighting much  in  ocular  impressions,  in 
forms  and  colours,  in  the  picturesque  and 
romantic  qualities  of  things  seen.     I  had 

led,  moreover,  an  intellectual  life,  interested 
80 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        81 

in  books  and  ideas,  and  the  record  of  hu- 
man personalities;  it  had  all  been  a  very 
artistic  business,  things,  landscapes,  build- 
ings, even  persons,  delighting  me,  by  giving 
me  the  perception  of  their  characteristic 
qualities  and  peculiar  charm.  But  now  in 
my  time  of  suffering  the  whole  of  that  in- 
terest was  gone.  I  found  myself  unable  to 
read  or  think  clearly.  Whatever  I  saw  or 
heard  which  evoked  any  interest  or  emo- 
tion, now  caused  me  indescribable  agitation 
and  pain.  A  beautiful  prospect,  an  ancient 
building,  a  delightful  person,  simply  struck 
me  with  a  desolate  pang  at  the  thought  of 
all  the  joy  and  brightness  I  had  lost.  One 
of  my  commonest  thoughts  was  to  say  to 
myself,  "  How  I  could  have  enjoyed  this !  " 
and  the  horror  that  came  from  the  sense 
that  all  joyful  perception  was  poisoned  at 
the  source  was  the  deepest  part  of  my  pain. 
I  cannot  describe  the  unutterable  melan- 


82        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

choly  which  the  sights  and  sounds  of  a 
beautiful  summer  day  used  to  cause  me. 
To  sit  in  the  midst  of  beauty,  the  sunlight 
falling  on  leaves  and  grass,  and  on  the 
gables  of  the  old  house  with  all  its  climb- 
ing roses;  to  see  far  away  the  foreground 
melting  into  the  distance,  the  woods,  the 
sloping  fields,  the  road  winding  away  over 
the  shoulder  of  the  hill,  the  long  calm  line 
of  the  distant  down,  was  misery  untold; 
and  the  sense  of  lingering  in  the  centre  of 
it  all,  a  diseased,  broken,  shrinking  crea- 
ture, without  delight  or  prospect  of  de- 
light, and  with  the  joys  of  life  falling  like 
fiery  arrows  on  the  tortured  and  sensitive 
brain,  was  a  source  of  incredible  wretched- 
ness. And  there  too  was  the  helpless  feel- 
ing that  I  could  do  nothing  to  recover  what 
I  had  lost ;  that  I  must  suffer  hour  by  hour, 
only  thankful  if  I  could  conceal  a  little  of 
my  misery  from  those  about  me,  and  just 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        83 

play  my   part  in   life  with   courtesy   and 
decency. 

But  as  the  days  became  weeks,  and  the 
weeks  months,  with  no  cessation  of  my 
wretchedness,  I  became  aware,  in  glimpses 
first,  and  then  with  a  steady  certainty,  that 
I  myself  was  behind  it  all,  unhurt  and  un- 
touched by  the  wretchedness  in  which  I 
was  involved.  I  was  like  a  man  who  has 
lost  his  sight,  but  yet  feels  that  the  power 
of  receiving  and  interpreting  impression  is 
there,  though  the  door  of  vision  is  closed. 
I  became  aware  that  the  body  was  at  fault, 
that  the  machinery  of  thought  was  un- 
strung, that  the  power  of  feeling  and  per- 
ceiving was  hampered;  but  I  saw  all  the 
time  that  the  deficiency  was  in  my  stricken 
frame,  and  that  not  only  were  the  things 
themselves  as  true  and  beautiful  and  real 
as  ever,  but  that  I  knew  within  myself  that 
it  was  so,  and  retained  the  inner  power  of 


84        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

judging,   and  loving,   and   admiring,   even 
though  I  could  not  exercise  it, 

I  do  not  say  that  this  helped  me  to  re- 
cover my  health.  It  seemed  to  have  no 
effect  upon  it  at  all.  It  made  me  even 
more  conscious  how  unable  the  body  was 
to  respond  to  any  impression,  or  desire,  or 
aspiration.  But  I  learned  that  the  self,  the 
identity,  the  inner  essence  of  being  was  as 
strong,  as  fresh,  as  vital,  as  imperishable 
as  ever.  I  had  hitherto  confused,  I  now 
saw,  the  machinery  of  perception  and  life 
and  consciousness  with  the  inner  life;  but 
now  at  last  I  perceived  that  there  was  some 
secret  fortress  of  the  soul  which  nothing 
could  conquer  or  subdue.  I  was  for  a  time 
like  a  man  in  a  dark  and  chilly  dungeon, 
in  which  the  fingers  of  the  light  just  travel 
day  by  day  from  the  loophole  above  him 
across  the  dripping  and  mildewed  wall ;  but 
I  knew  that  even  if  I  slipped  still  deeper 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        85 

into  misery,  if  my  reason  were  to  give  way, 
if  death  itself  came  to  me — so  often,  so 
ardently  desired — I  should  yet  be  there. 

This  tx^emendous  experience  ought,  if  fully 
appreciated,  to  have  delivered  me  once  and 
for  all  from  materialistic  tyrannies,  but 
that  was  not  the  case.  As  health  returns, 
the  body  reasserts  its  delight  in  sun  and 
air,  in  food  and  exercise,  in  sight  and 
sound — and  one  would  not  for  a  moment 
wish  it  otherwise;  but  it  has  relieved  me 
from  one  quality  which  was  formerly  strong 
in  me — the  sense  of  acquisitiveness  and  de- 
light in  property.  I  do  not  mean  that  one 
does  not  desire  the  conveniences  of  life; 
but  in  the  old  days  I  had  a  strong  sense 
of  possession,  and  the  feeling  that  books, 
and  pictures,  and  furniture  were  in  a 
peculiar  way  one's  own  xsipirfXia,  as  the 
Greeks  called  them — as  when  in  the  parable 
the  soul  said  to  itself  that  it  had  much 


86        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

goods  laid  up  for  many  years.  The  sense 
of  possession,  as  I  say,  has  deserted  me. 
The  fact  was  brought  home  to  me  in  a 
curious  way.  I  had  my  pleasant  house  in 
the  fenland  near  Ely,  in  which  I  had  col- 
lected all  sorts  of  properties,  old  furniture, 
family  memorials,  plate,  conveniences  of 
every  sort,  which  pleased  the  eye  and  the 
mind.  It  had  been  in  that  house  that  my 
illness  had  slowly  gained  upon  me,  and  all 
the  time  that  I  was  ill,  I  had  felt  a  curi- 
ous shrinking  from  visiting  it.  I  had 
planned  it  all  for  a  self-contained  and 
happy  life,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  see  the 
destruction  of  my  dream.  Near  the  end  of 
my  illness  I  had  an  opportunity  of  letting 
it  to  a  friend,  just  as  it  was;  and  soon  after 
I  became  well,  or  when  I  was  becoming 
well,  I  went  over  there  for  a  day.  I  could 
not  at  first  realise  what  had  happened  to 
me.     I    found    myself   looking   at   all    my 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        87 

treasured  possessions  with  a  sense  of  en- 
tire detachment  and  even  curiosity.  I  saw 
them  through  the  eyes  of  a  stranger,  with 
no  sense  of  possession,  and  hardly  any 
desire  for  possession  ;  and  then  when  I 
was  better  still,  I  began  to  spend  money  on 
various  designs,  the  money  which  strangely 
enough  had  accumulated  fast  in  my  time 
of  illness. 

But  the  sense  of  special  personal  pro- 
perty seems  to  have  departed  from  me. 
Side  by  side  with  this,  my  desire  for  per- 
sonal distinction  has  died  down.  But  this 
I  look  upon  rather  with  distrust,  because 
I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  more  than  a  cer- 
tain terror  of  the  trouble,  the  social  ex- 
actions, the  dreary  engagements  of  which 
the  ambitious  man  has  to  accept  the  bur- 
den. Still  it  is  a  relief  not  to  hunger  and 
hanker  for  recognition,  to  be  content  to 
value  my  friends  for  their  pleasantness,  not 


88        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

for  their  distinction;  to  choose  the  life  which 
interests  me,  not  the  life  which  makes  me 
prominent.  All  this  my  illness  stripped 
from  me.  The  result  is,  from  the  worldly 
point  of  view,  a  certain  failure,  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  man  just  not  strong  enough  to 
seize  his  chances,  and  afraid  of  respon- 
sibility. But  what  counterbalances  this  is 
a  grateful  contentment  in  simple  work,  a 
hope  of  being  quietly  useful,  a  far  more 
real  and  vital  happiness,  and  last  of  all, 
what  I  mean  to  write  of  more  fully,  a  deep 
desire  for  closer  relations  with  other  peo- 
ple, a  need  to  give  and  to  receive  affection, 
and  a  belief  in  the  experiences  of  love  as 
being  the  one  thing  which  we  are  meant 
at  all  costs  in  our  human  life  to  cultivate 
and  cling  to. 


X 

In  my  new-found  joy  I  passed  down  the 
little  flagged  path  beside  the  yew-hedge, 
leading  to  the  orchard.  The  sun-dial  on  my 
right  hardly  emerged  from  its  clump  of 
lavender,  and  there  was  lichen  on  the  slab. 
She  who  planned  and  devised  it,  and 
planted  the  fragrant  shrubs — such  little 
stocks  they  were  then ! — was  here  no  longer ; 
and  it  was  on  this  very  place  that,  point- 
ing to  the  far-off  road  which  curved  steeply 
through  the  coverts,  just  visible  over  the 
high-seeded  orchard  grass,  in  a  day  of  still 
summer,  she  said  that  she  liked  the  sight 
of  the  road,  because  some  one  might  be 
arriving  that  way.  A  little  further  on, 
under    the    rosemary,    was    the    slab    that 

marked  the  grave  of  the  old  collie,   who 

89 


90        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

turned  back  resolutely  in  his  last  walk,  and 
trotted  home  to  the  stable  to  die.  The  old 
house  itself,  how  it  spoke  of  vanished  life, 
from  the  initials  and  date  high  on  the 
gable,  to  the  casemented  windows  through 
which  how  many  desirous  eyes  had  looked 
their  last  upon  the  sky.  What  chance  have 
we,  if  we  have  lived  in  love  and  joy,  to 
make  anything  of  a  world  that  thus  falls 
in  ruins  about  us,  and  where  every  house 
and  field  and  high-standing  hill  is  the 
memorial  of  something  that  can  never  be 
again!  If  we  indeed  manage  to  survive, 
to  labour  on,  to  keep  our  private  hopes 
alive,  is  our  only  hope  to  wait  until  these 
sorrows  become  a  fragrant  sort  of  senti- 
ment, just  shading  and  heightening  the  sun- 
light of  our  happiness?  What  a  pitiful 
solution!  To  shirk  the  onrush  of  sorrow, 
to  be  always  courting  oblivion,  always 
counting  our  gains  and  gilding  our  mem- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        91 

ories.  To  turn  life  into  a  weak  artistry,  a 
thing  of  tones  and  values,  a  nosegay  to 
delight  the  sense.  Even  if  we  toughly 
labour  on,  is  it  but  to  beguile  the  thoughts 
of  beings  as  shortlived  and  evanescent  as 
ourselves?  Life  lived  on  these  terms  can- 
not be  a  serious  thing  or  a  real  thing;  it 
becomes  but  a  drive  in  a  comfortable 
vehicle,  through  wind  and  rain,  with  the 
ever-present  fear  that  we  may  at  any  time 
be  called  upon  to  alight  and  say  farewell. 

But  when  the  knowledge  of  our  im- 
mortality dawns  upon  us,  how  different 
become  all  these  soft  musings  and  broken 
echoes !  How  little  then  our  hearts  are  set 
upon  the  pleasant  garniture  of  life,  and  the 
riches  which  it  then  becomes  almost  a  de- 
light to  resign!  We  can  use  life  now  as 
indifferently  as  the  lover  eats  and  drinks, 
as  he  journeys  to  the  sight  of  his  beloved. 
Our   mind    is    fixed   no    longer    on    sweet 


92        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

colours  and  sounds,  because  it  knows  that 
it  is  passing  through  them,  and  that  they 
are  but  symbols  of  the  fulness  and  unity 
that  shall  be.  Those  whom  we  love  are  no 
longer  merely  those  with  whom  we  use  de- 
light, and  from  whom  we  gather  joy,  but 
souls  bound  to  us  for  ever  by  a  stainless 
bond,  which  no  lapse  of  time  can  hurt  or 
break.  And  therefore  we  make  haste  to 
cast  out  of  our  life  all  sick  and  jarring  ele- 
ments, and  to  agree  swiftly  while  we  are 
in  the  way  together. 

The  thought  of  sweet  things  that  must 
fade  is  no  longer  a  mere  poignant  senti- 
ment, but  a  sign  of  renewal  and  freedom. 
Memories  are  no  longer  mere  hopeless 
phantoms,  but  as  the  stones  of  the  deso- 
late place  out  of  which  the  wayfarer  piles 
his  pillow.  We  do  not  lose  the  sense  that 
things  belong  to  us,  but  instead  of  their 
being  things  which   we  hoard  for  a  little 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        93 

and  then  reluctantly  and  pathetically  re- 
sign, they  are  ours  for  ever.  The  felled 
tree,  the  dying  flower,  are  but  the  signs  of 
life  borrowed  from  one  place  to  be  revived 
again  elsewhere  with  the  same  endless 
ecstasy  of  life  and  vigour.  The  old  days 
of  kindness  and  regret,  when  we  grasped 
at  what  seemed  so  solid,  but  lapsed  like 
the  snow-crystal  while  we  held  our  breath, 
are  no  longer  times  to  muse  ruefully  over 
and  to  forget  if  we  can,  but  miry  ways 
wrhich  led  us,  how  blindly  and  dully,  to  the 
house  of  life  itself;  and  instead  of  view- 
ing pain  and  death  as  cruel  gradations  of 
decay,  through  which  we  fall  into  silence, 
we  know  them  to  be  the  last  high  steps  of 
the  ascent  from  which  the  view  of  life  it- 
self, with  all  its  wide  plains  and  woods,  its 
homesteads  and  towns,  will  break  upon  our 
delighted  eyes.  And  thus  we  come  to  feel 
differently  about  death  and  those  who  die; 


94        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

we  regard  them  half  enviously,  just  sigh- 
ing over  the  passing  pang,  the  heavy  terror 
of  the  last  sharp  strokes  of  pain — till  even 
the  thought  of  the  woeful  criminal  him- 
self, stumbling  along  the  stone-flagged  pas- 
sage into  the  scene  of  his  passion,  becomes 
touched  with  reverence,  as  being  the  figure 
of  one  to  whom  some  great  and  wonderful 
thing  will  presently  be  shown. 

It  may  be  said,  "  Can  we  live  life  on  this 
level  of  hope  and  expectation  ?  "  No,  we 
cannot  all  in  a  moment.  But  we  can  re- 
turn again  and  again,  in  times  of  grief  and 
pain,  to  contemplate  the  truth,  and  drink 
fresh  draughts  of  comfort  and  healing. 
The  one  thing  that  we  must  determine  is 
not  to  acquiesce  in  being  entangled  in  the 
earthly  things,  that  catch  and  wind,  like 
the  grasses  and  brambles  of  the  brake, 
about  our  climbing  feet.  Not  to  make 
terms  with  mortal  and  material  things,  not 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        95 

to  abide  in  them,  that  is  our  business  here 
and  now.  To  take  life  as  we  find  it,  but 
never  to  forget  that  it  is  neither  the  end 
or  the  goal,  that  it  is  at  once  the  problem 
and  the  solution.  And  yet  we  may  thank- 
fully accept  and  use  all  that  is  bright  and 
clear,  pure  and  beautiful,  courageous  and 
serene,  because  these  things  are  the  sym- 
bols of  the  life  to  which  we  are  moving. 
And,  on  the  other  hand,  sin  and  folly,  pain 
and  sorrow,  are  not  to  be  disregarded,  be- 
cause they  can  give  us  a  sense  of  pro- 
portion, and  warn  us  not  to  drowse,  like 
the  heedless  pilgrim,  in  the  dangerous 
arbours  by  the  road.  We  have  to  learn  to 
believe  in  the  permanence  of  nothing  but 
life  and  joy,  and  to  perceive  that  the  only 
times  when  we  are  not  advancing  are  the 
times  when  we  linger  morbidly  in  sadness, 
or  childishly  in  satisfaction. 


XI 

And  now  I  desire,  if  I  can,  to  go  further 
still,  outside  of  and  behind  life,  though  it 
can  be  little  more  than  as  if  one  ventured 
out  in  cloud  and  mist  on  to  the  crags  of 
some  vast  mountain;  one  can  but  dimly 
guess  at  angle  and  extent,  how  the  ridges 
lean  together,  where  the  snows  begin. 

And  how,  too,  can  one  be  perfectly  can- 
did in  this  matter?  It  is  not  only  that 
one  finds  oneself  at  every  moment  conflict- 
ing with  the  traditions,  the  prepossessions, 
the  very  experiences  of  other  souls ;  but  one 
has  one's  own  nurture,  traditions,  and  pre- 
possessions to  bewilder  one.  Can  one  so 
far  put  all  that  away  as  to  say  what  one 
believes,  even  to  know  what  one  believes? 

I  do  not  here  mean  to  deal  with  any  in- 
96 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff        97 

tellectual  view  of  religion,  any  claim  of 
dogma,  and  fact  of  revelation  or  evidence. 
In  the  darkness  of  mind  through  which  I 
had  to  pass,  one  had  to  leave  all  that  be- 
hind, to  part  from  all  institutions  of  so- 
ciety, all  ordinances  of  man.  One  did  not 
doubt  their  existence  or  their  value  to  liv- 
ing and  healthy  men;  but  in  that  dark 
valley  one  is  outside  of  them  all,  one  is 
alone  in  the  night — alone  with  what?  That 
is  the  question;  is  there  in  that  region  any 
certainty  at  all,  any  life  striving  behind  the 
mist,  anything  with  which  one  can  join 
hands? 

There  is  a  Power,  of  course!  I  never 
doubted  of  that.  One  realises  that  one  is 
not  self -created.  Something,  no  matter  by 
what  name  one  calls  it,  has  given  life  and 
consciousness  to  man,  or  has  evolved  him 
out  of  nothingness.  One  cares  little  about 
the  process  or  the  method.     But  one  stands 


98        Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

there  in  misery  and  bewilderment,  knowing 
that  one  is  miserable  and  bewildered,  able 
to  conceive  of  oneself  as  happy  and  peace- 
ful; and  to  me  at  least  it  is  inconceivable 
to  think  of  myself  as  owning  all  these  qual- 
ities and  perceptions,  unless  they  were  be- 
stowed upon  me  by  One  that  owned  them 
too.  There  was  a  Power  then  outside  one- 
self, and  stronger  than  oneself,  of  which 
one  was  in  some  way  the  expression.  Rea- 
son and  intuition  alike  seemed  to  demand 
that.  But  when  body,  mind,  and  soul  were 
all  at  strife,  the  question  was  what  Power 
was  the  ultimate  one.  The  Greeks,  for  in- 
stance, conceived  of  fate  as  behind  the 
gods,  as  a  force  to  which  even  the  gods 
were  subject.  And  therefore  the  grada- 
tions of  power,  if  there  were  gradations, 
mattered  little,  for  what  I  was  in  search 
of  was  the  ultimate  Power  from  which  all 
that  I  was  had  filtered  down.      I  seemed 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff       99 

then  to  discern  Him  very  far  off,  and  knew 
that  I  derived  my  being  from  Him;  and 
looking  back  at  the  world's  slow  and  dim 
history,  I  seemed  to  discern  something  more 
than   that;   an   aim,   an   end   in   sight;   a 
growth  of  justice  and  truth  and  love,  in  the 
direction  of  stability  and  happiness.     I  dis- 
cerned more  and  more  that  men  were  not 
at  ease,  if  they  but  safeguarded  themselves 
in  security  and  pleasure;  that  more  and 
more  their  content  was  shadowed,  if  they 
saw  others  toiling  and  suffering,  out  of  the 
sunshine  of  life;  so  that  gradually  humanity 
seemed  desirous  to  make  room  inside  the 
circle  of  light  and  warmth,  that  all  might 
take  their  share;  and  I  could  feel  no  doubt 
in  my  own  mind  that  the  more  that  a  man 
felt  ill  at  ease  at  the  thought  of  the  un- 
happiness  and  darkness  of  others,  the  finer, 
better,   higher  he  became.     He   could   not 
always,  it  was  true,  convert  others  to  this 


ioo      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

belief.  There  were  still  some,  alas!  whose 
own  ease  was  made  even  more  delicious  by 
the  thought  that  others  were  excluded ;  who 
felt  the  warmth  of  their  own  fireside  more 
pleasant,  because  there  were  men  shiver- 
ing in  the  cold;  while  perhaps  the  noblest 
of  all  could  even  abjure  their  own  ease,  not 
rationally  but  impulsively,  simply  because 
they  could  not  bear  to  have  it  if  they  could 
not  also  share  it. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  I  met  a  man 
who  showed  me,  without  intending  it,  a 
great  light.  He  was  a  man  of  singular 
nobility  of  thought,  wTho  took  the  most  im- 
personal view  of  humanity  I  have  ever  en- 
countered. His  view  was  that  the  indi- 
vidual perished  utterly,  like  a  blown-out 
flame — but  he  maintained  that  for  all  that, 
one  could  rejoice  in  the  thought  of  the 
world  going  on,  of  the  great  problem  of 
life  working  itself  out,  humanity  growing 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      i6i 

in  courage  and  disinterestedness  and  kind- 
ness, society  shaping  itself  upon  ever  higher 
lines. 

I  could  not  share  this  view.  I  could 
feel  with  him  that  it  was  possible  to  be 
intensely  interested  in  the  progress  of  the 
world,  so  long  as  one  was  an  integral  part 
of  it,  but  I  could  not  feel  any  real  interest 
in  a  thing  from  which  I  was  to  be  ulti- 
mately wholly  dissociated,  any  more  than  I 
could  be  really  interested  in  what  was  go- 
ing on,  say,  in  the  planet  Mars.  I  might 
be  interested,  of  course,  speculatively  and 
imaginatively.  But  I  could  not  feel  it 
was  in  any  sense  a  vital  concern  of  mine 
if  my  thought  and  action  could  not  affect 
it  in  the  slightest  degree.  "  But,"  he 
said  to  me,  "you  are  affecting  the  prob- 
lem now  by  every  deed  you  do  and 
every  word  you  say.  Your  mark  upon  the 
world   is    indelible,    whatever   happens    to 


102       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

you."  "  Undoubtedly,"  I  said,  "  but  I  must 
be  permanently  concerned  in  it,  before  it 
can  be  anything  but  a  mere  tender  and 
imaginative  interest.  If  it  is  to  be  but  as 
a  book  that  I  read,  where  nothing  that  I 
can  do  can  affect  the  fortunes  or  the  pro- 
spects of  the  characters  depicted,  it  is 
nothing  to  me  but  a  passing  fancy." 

But  here  that  other  conviction  of  which 
I  have  spoken  came  to  my  assistance.  I 
was  assured  of  the  permanence  of  my  soul ; 
and  though  I  could  not  conceive  under 
what  conditions  I  could  enter  hereafter, 
when  I  had  passed  the  gate  of  death,  into 
the  corporate  life  of  humanity,  I  felt  that 
I  should  not  and  could  not  forfeit  that 
privilege,  that  possession  of  individuality. 

And  then  indeed  I  had  a  vision  of  in- 
finite hope.  The  world,  the  awful,  the 
mysterious  life  of  man,  would  indeed  con- 
tinue ever  schooling  itself  into  new  wisdom 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      103 

and  strength  and  beauty,  and  I  should  still 
assuredly  bear  my  part.  The  flowers  would 
still  rise  in  their  places,  the  woodlands 
break  into  leaf  and  song;  among  them 
would  wander  the  men  and  women  who 
should  come  after,  with  the  same  delicious 
wonder,  the  same  sweet  hopes  and  visions 
— and  yet  not  the  same,  for  they  would 
year  by  year  be  less  and  less  marred  and 
clouded  by  the  fears  and  sins  that  in  the 
old  days  had  clouded  and  marred  our  own 
peace  and  joy.  I  did  not  need  to  vex  my- 
self with  any  definite  theories  of  reincarna- 
tion or  new  birth,  but  I  knew  that  the  life 
which  I  called  mine  was  an  indestructible 
thing,  and  must  emerge  again  as  life  con- 
scious of  itself.  I  could  conceive  of  no 
gathering  or  accumulation  of  passionless 
souls,  bidden  to  rest  in  clouds  of  melodv 
and  light.  I  must  continue,  I  must  suffer, 
I   must  toil,   I   must  love,  over  and  over 


104      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

again,  till  life  itself  was  purified  and  made 
wholly  good. 

That  then  I  saw  was  the  inner  meaning 
of  the  things  so  clumsily  and  tediously 
parcelled  out  here — faith  and  beauty,  sacra- 
mental aspiration,  prayer,  self-sacrifice, 
worship.  They  were  all  the  conscious- 
ness, symbolically  expressed  in  phrase  and 
colour,  in  ceremony  and  sound,  of  one 
gigantic  energy  drawing  every  kindred  soul 
more  and  more  into  harmony  with  itself. 

And  that  was  God!  A  stupendous 
thought,  stupendous  from  its  mere  simpli- 
city; it  had  been  staring  me  in  the  face  all 
the  time,  and  I  had  never  suspected  it.  I 
had  tried  path  after  path,  deserting  each 
in  turn,  because  they  did  not  seem  to  lead 
me  to  a  celestial  city,  on  far-off  hills,  with 
amethystine  foundations  and  gates  of  pearl. 
I  was  within  the  city  all  the  time,  and  I 
knew  it  not.     It  was  no  place  of  melodious 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      105 

ease  and  ordered  ceremony.  Its  trumpets 
were  the  voice  of  labour,  its  smiles  the  joy 
of  love,  its  incense-clouds  the  thrill  of  as- 
piring prayer.  How  could  man  ever  have 
believed  that  the  heaven  of  saints  made  per- 
fect would  have  been  anything  but  hell  to 
them,  if  they  could  hear  the  groans  of  the 
world  below,  the  droppings  of  its  sad  tears, 
and  be  condemned  never  to  use  their  deli- 
cate hands  or  soil  their  dainty  robes?  Such 
a  heaven  would  be  but  a  paradise  for  re- 
fined and  selfish  sensualists.  The  very 
saints  were  doubtless  serving  still,  the 
heroes  still  bearing  themselves  nobly,  the 
lovers  still  thrilling  with  hope  of  union. 
There  could  be  nothing  withdrawn,  nothing 
exclusive,  in  that  kingdom. 

And  what  then  of  the  sin  and  evil  that 
were  here,  the  perversity,  the  shameful  de- 
lays, the  ugly  hoardings,  the  hard  indif- 
ferences that  had  darkened  my  days,  and 


1 06      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

would  continue  to  darken  them,  for  all  my 
visions?  They  were  here,  a  ghastly  reality, 
too  strong  to  be  swept  away  even  by  the 
awful  Will  of  God.  And  if  He  permitted 
them,  could  not  I  permit  them,  and  all  the 
more,  if  He  gave  me  the  desire  to  end 
them?  If  He  did  not  make  an  end  of 
them,  must  they  not,  in  some  way  which 
I  could  not  even  dimly  guess,  be  worth 
while?  Was  not  the  conquest  somehow 
worth  more  than  passionless  inactive  good? 
And  were  they  not,  most  of  them,  but  a 
sort  of  phantom,  a  grasping  at  joy  miscon- 
ceived and  delight  misunderstood?  The 
sins  of  my  own  life,  they  had  been  all  of 
them  a  desire  to  claim  more  than  was  my 
share  of  ease,  an  indifference  to  others' 
welfare.  And  was  not  the  regenerating 
spirit  of  the  world  a  desire  to  share  one's 
good  with  others?  Pride,  power,  lust, 
malice,  cruelty,  were  all  the  claim  for  indi- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      107 

vidual  comfort;  and  the  new  wise  spirit  of 
the  world,  that  spirit  which  has  grown  up 
abundantly  of  late,  was  the  spirit  of  just 
participation. 

The  soul  and  God!  These  were  the 
things  that  my  sorrow  enabled  me,  how- 
ever faintly,  to  discern.  But  the  new 
knowledge,  while  it  brought  fresh  sanc- 
tions, brought  with  it  also  fresh  prohibi- 
tions. What  must  I  do  that  was  different 
from  what  I  had  done?  I  must  welcome 
first  and  recognise  any  sign  of  the  divine 
power,  no  matter  in  what  distasteful  forms 
of  rite  or  creed  it  expressed  itself,  as  long 
as  it  was  clearly  on  the  side  of  human 
justice  and  kindness.  If  it  taught  justice, 
and  temperance,  and  affection,  that  was 
enough.  Its  symbols,  its  intellectual  for- 
mula?, were  not  my  concern,  so  long  as  it 
was  striving  for  spirit  and  clearness  of 
vision  as  against  matter  and  confusion  of 


io8      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

thought.  Next  I  must  try,  as  far  as  in 
me  lay,  in  whatever  position  I  found  my- 
self, to  induce  others  to  look  as  clearly 
and  as  fairly  as  possible  at  the  problems 
of  life,  to  abandon  personal  tastes  and 
preferences,  and  to  see  life  steadily  and 
finely.  My  work,  it  seemed,  was  to  teach 
and  write;  and  I  must  never  encourage  a 
prejudice  or  a  frailty.  I  must  make  no  ex- 
cuses for  myself,  but  I  must  not  indulge 
in  controversy  or  argument;  I  must  per- 
suade, if  I  could,  but  never  coerce.  I  must 
aim  at  no  position  of  influence,  and  clear 
myself  of  every  wish  to  direct  the  lives  of 
others,  only  taking  care  to  live  peaceably 
and  laboriously.  I  must  not  seclude  my- 
self from  the  world,  but  take  the  obvious 
duty  it  offered  me.  I  must  try  to  be  can- 
did and  not  militant.  I  must  grasp  at 
nothing,  plan  nothing.  I  perceive  all  this 
only  too  clearly,  but  I  do  not  say  that  I 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      109 

can  carry  it  out;  but  my  failure  must  not 
discourage  me,  for  not  by  this  life  only  is 
my  share  in  the  upward  movement  of  hu- 
manity bounded.  Above  all  I  must  wel- 
come every  hint  and  offer  of  friendship  and 
affection,  that  I  may  grow  thus  into  a 
wider  love;  and  the  more  souls  that  I  can 
find  to  love,  the  more  do  I  know  that  there 
are  to  love.  I  will  worship  humanity  not 
in  its  weakness,  but  in  its  hope  of  strength. 
And  last  of  all  I  will  let  nothing  in  the 
world  stand  between  my  soul  and  God, 
neither  laws,  nor  traditions,  nor  rites,  nor 
doctrines.  Whatever  cramps,  or  clouds,  or 
distorts  the  soul,  I  will  abjure  utterly. 
Here  seems  to  me  to  lie  the  secret  of  the 
teaching  of  Christ,  the  law  not  of  destruc- 
tion but  of  fulfilment.  Every  religion  that 
has  ever  been  is  an  attempt  to  bring  the 
soul  and  God  together;  and  into  every  re- 
ligion has  crept  a  barrier  of  custom  and 


no      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

prejudice,  of  personal  interests  and  material 
claims,  that  have  insisted  on  allegiance.  I 
have  done,  I  hope,  with  all  that.  I  do  not 
expect  to  escape  pain  and  sorrow :  there  are 
shadows  on  the  pathway  that  lies  ahead. 
I  cannot  pierce  the  gloom,  but  there  is  light 
above,  behind,  beyond.  I  can  say  with  the 
Psalmist,  "  I  see  that  all  things  come  to 
an  end ;  but  Thy  commandment  is  exceeding 
broad." 


XII 

It  was  like  a  new  beginning  of  life,  and 
for  the  first  time  I  knew  what  the  old  dry 
word  regeneration  could  mean.  Life  seemed 
to  be  quietly  handed  back  to  me,  sim- 
plified, straightened  out,  renewed.  It  was 
as  though  the  Giver  of  Life  had  resumed 
His  gift  for  a  while,  that  it  might  be  re- 
cast, remoulded,  reinvigorated ;  and  then 
restored  it  to  me,  as  if  saying  with  a  smile, 
"  There  is  the  great  gift  which  you  have 
misunderstood,  misused,  strained,  tangled, 
almost  broken;  it  has  been  put  straight  for 
you,  in  those  dark  hours;  try  now  to  use 
it  better !  "  The  joy  of  that  new  gift  flowed 
into  every  corner  of  my  mind  and  soul,  and 
illuminated  it  all  as  with  the  light  of  the 

rainbow  that  is  round  about  the  Throne; 
in 


ii2      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

it  had  the  fresh,  the  divine  quality  about 
it  again. 

That  light  shone  clearly  upon  that 
strange  complex  thing  which  I  had  called 
my  religion,  a  strange  mixture  of  tradi- 
tion, association,  knowledge,  opinion,  rite, 
ceremony,  artistic  emotion.  That  had  all 
to  be  reconsidered  and  simplified,  if  possible. 

I  read  the  Gospel  afresh,  almost  as  a 
new  book,  and  a  mist  seemed  to  clear  away 
from  my  eyes.  There  were  many  things  in 
it  which  were  obscure,  many  things  which 
were  not  so  much  incredible,  as  needing  an 
attestation  and  a  confirmation  which  it  was 
impossible  they  could  obtain.  But  the  mis- 
take which  one  had  made  had  been,  I  now 
saw,  to  take  it  rather  as  though  it  had  been 
an  autobiography  of  the  Saviour,  when  it  was 
really  a  dim  record  made  by  very  simple 
and  ignorant  people,  whose  minds  were  all 
coloured  and  warped  by  the  prejudices,  the 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      113 

traditions,  the  current  beliefs  and  opinions 
of  their  time.  They  had  seen  in  the  Sa- 
viour's life  the  things  they  had  expected 
and  desired  to  see.  But  now  I  suddenly  dis- 
cerned Christ  through  the  Gospel  rather  than 
in  the  Gospel.  There  was  that  Divine, 
stainless,  noble  figure  behind  it  all,  mis- 
understood, misinterpreted,  misconceived. 
It  loomed  out  suddenly  as  a  great  snow  peak 
beyond  the  broken  ridges.  It  was  made  all 
the  more  majestic,  all  the  more  impossibly 
beautiful  by  the  crudity  of  the  record,  the 
cloudy  texture  of  overlaid  belief;  while  the 
whole  vast  fabric  of  ecclesiastical  policy 
and  scientific  definition,  built  up,  court 
after  court,  wall  after  wall,  here  a  tower, 
there  a  hall,  round  the  little  bare  central 
shrine,  seemed  to  collapse  before  my  gaze. 

The  secret  of  Christ— it  was  not  a  thing 
to  be  apprehended  historically  or  doc- 
trinally  or  authoritatively;  it  was  as  though 


ii4      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

in  a  great  palace,  where  one  had  resorted 
in  awe  and  bewilderment,  crowded  with 
busy,  stately,  severe,  preoccupied  persons, 
the  Lord  of  the  place  came  suddenly  for- 
ward, simply  habited,  with  a  smile  and  an 
outstretched  hand.  It  mattered  not  what 
men  had  made  of  Him,  how  they  had  used 
His  name  to  serve  their  ends;  the  spirit  had 
been  strongest  in  those  dim  days  of  the 
faith  when  it  had  spread  secretly  from 
heart  to  heart;  but  I  saw  all  at  once  He 
had  been  there,  that  He  had  lived  and 
died,  spoken  and  thought.  The  sense  of  an 
absolutely  real  human  presence,  a  Brother 
indeed,  with  matchless  insight,  perfect  wis- 
dom, infinite  affection,  endless  sympathy, 
flashed  across  me. 

What  was  the  life  that  He  would  have 
us  live,  what  was  the  spirit  we  were  to 
nurture  in  our  hearts?  An  unquestioning 
affection,  an  unfailing  kindness,  a  simple 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      115 

confidence  in  the  Father,  and  his  high  and 
joyful  intention  towards  man.  That  first; 
and  from  that  was  to  flow  an  instant  sacri- 
fice of  all  ambition,  all  desire,  all  claim. 
We  were  to  scheme  for  nothing,  call  nothing 
our  own,  give  freely  and  generously,  for- 
give everything,  despair  of  no  one,  live  joy- 
fully and  simply  where  we  found  ourselves 
placed,  not  regret  the  past,  not  plan  the 
future.  We  were  to  conquer  material 
things  by  disregarding  them,  not  concern 
ourselves  with  the  aims  and  policies  of  the 
world,  not  indulge  spite  or  anger  or  malice, 
take  for  granted  the  goodwill  and  brother - 
liness  of  men.  It  was  not  that  men  were 
to  strive  and  cry  and  testify,  to  indulge  in 
picturesque  abnegations  or  conspicuous  as- 
ceticism. It  was  a  temper,  an  attitude,  an 
atmosphere  of  thought  that  was  commanded 
— a  mood  that  a  man  might  practise  in  a 
court,  in  a  house  of  business,  in  a  profes- 


n6      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

sion,  as  a  clerk,  as  a  labourer,  as  an 
artisan.  It  did  not  mean  a  breaking  of 
ties,  a  sacrifice  of  human  engagements,  a 
loud  proclamation  of  insistent  duties.  One 
was  to  have  leisure  to  love  things  pure 
and  beautiful,  to  be  kind  and  good,  patient 
and  serene.  It  was  to  be  an  inward  hap- 
piness, which  was  to  flow  out  to  all  one's 
circle.  The  one  thing  to  fear  and  dread 
was  harsh,  censorious,  grim  respectability. 
Life  was  to  be  a  smiling,  joyful,  leisurely, 
kindly  thing,  not  grave  or  preoccupied  or 
sorrowful.  Grief,  pain,  loss,  disappoint- 
ment, anxiety,  were  to  be  met  in  the  same 
untroubled  spirit,  as  things  which  would 
come  to  an  end,  and  yet  had  each  a  gift 
to  offer.  The  native  air  of  the  spirit  was 
to  be  a  calm  and  living  joy,  meeting  all  with 
the  same  eager  interest  and  sympathy,  not 
expecting  all  to  be  perfect,  and  yet  amused 
rather  than  vexed  at  their  imperfections. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      117 

The  failure  was  to  form  habits,  pre- 
judices, critical  perceptions,  even  principles. 
Those  were  the  things  that  narrowed  the 
soul.  One  was  to  regard  even  sin  as  a 
sign  that  the  sinner  had  not  perceived 
where  happiness  lay,  was  grasping  at 
something  feverish,  greedy,  unsatisfying, 
and  must  learn  the  truth  by  delay  and 
weariness. 

But  the  force  and  beauty  of  the  message 
lay  in  this — that  it  did  not  require  a  long 
apprenticeship,  an  intricate  initiation.  The 
moment  one  perceived  it,  one  could  begin 
to  practise  it,  and  every  least  experiment 
showed  the  peace  that  might  ensue.  It  all 
lay  in  the  freshness  and  eagerness  of  the 
untrammelled  life,  the  discovery,  so  simple 
but  yet  so  sure,  that  one  gained  instantane- 
ously by  any  sacrifice  of  material  things 
or  selfish  desires;  that  so  far  from  the 
abandonment  of  a  desire  or  an   ambition 


n8       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

being  a  pain,  it  brought  with  it  a  sense  of 
freedom  and  lightness,  and  gave  the  soul 
more  time  for  its  own  quiet  joy. 

What  tortured  moralities,  what  scru- 
pulous agonies,  what  ugly  fears  and  mis- 
eries have  been  made  out  of  this  sweet  and 
simple  message  of  joy  and  peace!  That  is 
the  saddest  part  of  the  history  of  the 
faith,  that  men,  instead  of  perceiving  its  es- 
sence, have  tried  to  read  their  own  complex, 
harsh,  hostile,  combative  temperaments  into 
it;  have  been  so  bewildered  by  its  sweetness 
and  gentleness  and  childlike  joy,  that  they 
have  mistrusted  and  distorted  it,  and  feared 
to  take  up  so  light  a  burden,  because  they 
did  not  dare  to  believe  that  the  Father 
meant  them  so  well.  Thus  they  have  mul- 
tiplied fears  and  restrictions  and  duties  and 
anxieties  to  please  Him,  when  they  were 
intended  to  cast  them  all  aside. 

I  know  well  that  it  is  possible  to  pluck 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      119 

a  handful  of  fiery  darts  out  of  the  Gospel 
itself  to  confute  this  view.  But  I  feel  so 
certain  of  the  real  drift  and  purpose  of 
the  secret  of  Christ,  that  I  am  content  to 
disregard  all  this.  Christ  did  not  speak  of 
life  as  a  place  of  anxious  fear  and  dreary 
drudgery,  but  as  a  place  that  might  be  full 
of  hope  and  content  and  joy. 

Now  to  perceive  this  is  not  at  once  to 
practise  it;  and  I  say  plainly  that  my  own 
life  contradicts  my  faith  in  many  respects. 
One  cannot,  soaked  as  one  is  by  habits, 
faults,  fears,  desires,  rise  into  perfect  joy. 
But  I  am  in  no  doubt  whatever  of  the 
truth;  and  if  one  desires  to  be  different, 
one  becomes  different.  I  have,  however 
feebly,  lived,  since  I  saw  the  light,  in  a 
different  frame  of  mind;  I  have  tried  to  be 
peaceful,  quiet,  forbearing;  I  have  tried  to 
meet  all  men  and  women  as  brothers  and 
sisters  indeed  in  the  great  family  of  God; 


120       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

I  have  tried  to  give  rather  than  to  hoard; 
I  have  tried  to  speak  peace  and  to  practise 
it.  I  am  in  no  doubt  whatever  of  the  lov- 
ing intention  of  the  Father  to  me,  His  very 
frail  and  wilful  child.  Sin  and  doubt  and 
fear  very  often  overcome  me,  and  I  know 
how  little  reason  I  give  to  others  to  be 
recognised  as  a  Christian;  but  I  do  recog- 
nise Christ  as  my  Lord  and  Master,  and 
would  keep  His  will,  if  I  could;  and  though 
I  go  astray  like  a  sheep  that  is  lost,  I  do 
indeed  know  that  my  Shepherd  follows  me 
and  seeks  me;  I  discern  Him  moving  to- 
wards the  dawn;  His  hand  guides  me,  puts 
aside  the  thorny  branches  through  which  I 
could  not  press,  leads  me  beside  the  waters 
of  comfort.  I  can  dare  to  be  joyful  be- 
neath His  eye.  I  do  not  know  what  the 
end  will  be,  or  what  eager  energy  of  life  lies 
beyond  the  dark  river;  but  I  am  redeemed 
and  fed,  and  shall  some  day  be  satisfied ! 


XIII 

Yet,  however  clearly  one  may  discern  the 
law  of  beautiful  life,  we  cannot  overlook 
the  dark  background  from  which  it  emerges, 
in  all  its  pure  and  crystalline  radiance. 

The  real  insuperable  difficulty  lies  here 
— that  we  are  cast,  all  of  us,  in  so  in- 
tensely personal  moulds,  and  then  dealt 
with  so  impersonally.  Suffering  and  dis- 
aster fly  about  among  the  helpless  crowd, 
striking  down  a  victim  here  and  there,  like 
some  great  ugly  exploding  bomb,  horribly 
indifferent  to  the  temperament  and  ca- 
pacity of  those  who  are  wounded.  No 
effort  of  the  imagination  can  make  us  be- 
lieve, unless  indeed  we  wilfully  close  our 
eyes  to  half  the  facts,  that  troubles  come 
to  us  like  the  subtle  and  timely  arrows  of 

121 


122      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

some  heavenly  marksman.  Some  strong 
brutal  selfish  character  elbows  his  way 
through  life,  dealing  misery  as  he  goes, 
alike  to  those  who  withstand  him  and  to 
those  whom  he  deigns  to  desire,  without  a 
single  pang  to  mar  his  serenity;  or  a  com- 
plication of  tragic  woes  falls  on  the  head 
of  some  frail,  innocent,  well-meaning  crea- 
ture, whose  only  fault  is  guilelessness.  Or 
the  misery  does  not  fall  when  it  is  needed, 
when  it  might  have  warned  and  saved,  but 
long  after,  in  crushing  violence,  when  no 
amendment  is  possible.  And  then,  too, 
there  is  implanted  in  us  a  strong  sense  of 
justice  and  injustice,  which  seems  to  be 
made  after  some  heavenly  pattern;  and  this 
is  thwarted  and  belied  and  contradicted  by 
the  harsh  tyrannies  of  fate.  Happy  is  the 
man  who  can  say  truly  and  sincerely  with 
all  his  heart,  "  Great  is  Thy  mercy,  O  Lord, 
and  just  are  Thy  judgments !  "     Not 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      123 

strong  within  us  is  the  sense  of  how  wTe 
should  deal  with  character,  to  guard,  and 
purify,  and  strengthen  it.  Think  of  the 
anxious  care  of  a  tender  father,  how  to 
bring  up  his  boys  in  purity  and  manliness. 
How  he  schemes  for  them,  to  wTarn  neither 
too  much  nor  too  little,  to  give  his  children 
confidence  in  himself,  to  encourage  them  to 
trust  him,  to  win  them  to  the  side  of  whole- 
some, beautiful,  and  manly  influences !  And 
then  perhaps  he  has  the  pain  of  seeing  his 
care  and  love  thwarted  by  some  coarse 
seduction,  some  careless  companionship, 
some  chance  association.  The  best  con- 
solation we  can  apply  is  that  care  and  love 
and  influence  work  out  well  on  the  aver- 
age; but  that  is  just  where  an  infinite 
goodness  and  love  ought  not  to  break  down ; 
it  ought  not  to  have  a  fringe  of  waste  and 
mire,  if  it  is  all-powerful  and  all-regarding. 
A  finite  creature  might  thus  fail  because  of 


124       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

his  limitations,  might  be  distressed  at  being 
unable  to  carry  out  his  design  in  perfec- 
tion. But  the  infinite  power  above  us 
seems  to  fail  even  more  helplessly  and  more 
ruthlessly.  Neither  is  it  as  though  that 
power  always  worked  on  the  side  of  joy 
against  sorrow.  Some  of  the  worst  things 
in  life  happen  to  us  through  our  delight, 
and  some  of  the  best  things  come  from  our 
pains;  and  again  there  are  joys  that  en- 
noble and  sorrows  that  discourage.  There 
comes  the  Gospel  message  that  tells  us  that 
the  mourner  and  the  beggar  are  blest,  and 
speaks  of  a  God  ready  instantly  to  welcome 
the  repentant  sinner  and  to  restore  him. 
And  when  we  joyfully  and  ardently  believe 
it,  experience  touches  us  on  the  shoulder, 
and  shows  us  that  it  is  not  so,  that  the 
man  whom  God  seems  to  favour  is  the  self- 
controlled,  prudent,  strong,  and  cautious 
man,  who  cannot  be  wounded  through  his 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      125 

affections,  because  his  heart  is  cold,  or 
through  his  hopes,  because  he  has  none,  or 
through  his  aspirations,  because  they  are  to 
him  mere  schemes  for  comfort.  This  is  the 
man  who  lives  life  easily  and  cheerfully, 
and  often  faces  death  resolutely  and  with 
courage ;  wiiile  the  ardent,  the  sensitive,  the 
highly-strung,  who  are  athirst  for  all  that 
is  beautiful  and  radiant  and  sweet,  are  the 
prey  of  a  hundred  disappointments  and 
disillusionments  and  sorrows;  and  even  for 
these  God  has  some  love,  for  He  sends  them 
their  time  of  joy.  But  worst  of  all  is  the 
case  of  the  meek  and  the  stupid,  the  weak 
and  the  unbalanced,  the  dull  and  the  un- 
interesting; on  these  frail  creatures  of  His 
hand  neither  God  or  man  has  any  mercy; 
they  are  the  prey  of  their  weakness,  and 
no  one  pities  them;  men  are  relieved  or  in- 
different when  they  die;  they  are  pushed 
from  the  banquet  of  life,  they  are  made  to 


126       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

serve  and  drudge,  and  they  are  consumed 
by  bitterness  and  dreariness.  Yet  here  and 
there,  in  every  rank  and  class,  up  and  down 
the  line,  one  sees  a  few  entirely  sweet  and 
simple  souls,  with  no  thought  of  themselves, 
no  personal  aspirations,  who  go  day  by  day 
through  life  with  perfect  sincerity  and  con- 
tent, radiating  love  and  serenity,  wholly 
quiet  and  true,  with  no  struggles  against 
evil,  no  thwarting  obstacles,  with  neither 
ambitions  nor  discontents,  claiming  to  re- 
ceive nothing,  desiring  only  to  give  and 
serve.  Yet  no  one  can  resemble  them  by 
taking  thought;  their  secret  is  incom- 
municable, and  they  are  aware  of  no  strife 
or  strain.  There  seems  no  reason  why 
these  should  be  few,  and  yet  they  are  few. 
And  what  is  perhaps  the  strangest  thought 
of  all  is,  that  what  seem  the  highest  souls 
of  all,  souls  thrilled  by  every  hint  of  beauty 
and  filled  at  the  outset  of  life  with  every 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      127 

kind  of  inner  delight,  anxious  to  be  taught, 
greedy  of  perfection,  are  yet  so  strangely 
blind,  mistaking  the  things  that  are  truly 
and  deeply  beautiful,  and  turning  aside 
after  charm  and  attractiveness.  Such  as 
these,  when  they  have  some  high  and  noble 
task  set  them,  some  patient  self-sacrifice, 
some  humble  service,  can  only  see  it  in  a 
dreary  and  dull  aspect,  full  of  intolerable 
tedium  and  sickening  monotony;  and  not 
till  the  opportunity  is  over,  till  the  broken 
soul  they  might  have  healed  dies  uncom- 
forted,  till  the  weary  life  they  might  have 
gladdened  is  spent,  do  they  see  that  it 
would  have  been  a  great  and  noble  deed; 
and  thus  they  pass  through  life,  unable  to 
discern  the  inner  beauty  of  what  meets 
them,  and  pierced  with  unavailing  regret 
when  it  has  passed  by. 

And   in    all    this    strange    confusion    of 
thought  and  impulse  of  mood  and  tempera- 


128      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

ment,  we  are  set  to  find  God  and  right  and 
beauty,  if  we  can;  and  after  perverse  mis- 
takes and  heart-breaking  errors,  and  low 
temptations,  and  miserable  failures,  we  be- 
gin to  doubt  if  the  Shepherd  has  really  any 
care  for  his  lost  sheep,  whether  he  only 
cares  for  those  who  are  docile  and  obe- 
dient, loving  pasture  and  provender  and 
the  security  of  the  fold. 

Yet  all  this  too  could  be  amended  if  we 
had  a  sure  and  certain  hope  that  life  and 
temperament  were  immortal,  and  that  in 
some  freer  world  of  spirit,  all  could  be  re- 
dressed and  comforted,  our  wounds  bound 
up,  our  failing  strength  repaired;  but  of 
that  we  are  in  utter  ignorance;  even  if  we 
have  the  conviction  of  it,  we  cannot  give  that 
conviction  to  another.  And  there  are  times 
when  we  lay  to  rest  the  silent  form  of  one 
who  has  been  worsted  in  the  battle,  who 
has  suffered   dishonour   and  disgrace   and 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      129 

woe,  who  has  drunk  deep  of  evil  joys  and 
evil  pains,  when  we  feel  that  if  this  life 
is  all,  it  is  a  ghastly  and  a  cruel  business, 
and  hate  the  smiling  sun,  the  fluttering 
leaf,  the  song  of  the  bird  in  the  church- 
yard thicket,  because  it  all  seems  a  heart- 
less mockery.  Then,  if  some  secret  voice 
could  tell  us,  indubitably  and  serenely,  that 
all  will  yet  be  duly  apportioned,  we  feel 
that  we  could  bear  anything  and  wait  for 
ever;  but  we  are  left  in  our  blindness,  our 
hands  stretched  out,  the  sweet  wind  in  our 
face,  wishing  we  could  sleep  like  the  pebble 
in  the  sun,  passionless  as  the  warm  ray, 
untroubled  as  the  quiet  lake. 

Yet  it  may  be!  and  deep  in  the  heart, 
behind  all  misery  of  failure,  all  extremity 
of  regret,  deep  as  the  fathomless  sea,  re- 
mote as  the  hidden  star,  there  does  rest  the 
faith  that  we  are  made  for  harmony  and 
peace  and  joy,  and  that  we  must  earn  them 


130      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

by  dumb  patience  and  bitter  suffering,  by 
sickening  distrust  and  dreary  loneliness. 
It  is  there,  that  last  blest  hope;  and  just 
because  it  is  the  last  and  deepest  thought, 
the  thought  that  remains  when  all  else  is 
emptied  out  of  us,  all  desire  and  regret,  all 
love  and  sorrow,  all  pride  and  despair,  it 
must  at  last  prevail.  We  cannot  anticipate 
it,  we  cannot  delay  it.  Every  avenue  of 
life,  every  grim  and  labyrinthine  passage  of 
woe,  leads  out  upon  that  paradise  of  God. 
For  the  soul  returns  to  love  and  peace  as 
its  natural  inheritance,  and  folds  its  wing 
at  last  in  the  tree  of  life  that  is  in  the 
midst  of  that  hidden  garden. 

And  therefore  I  believe,  and  call  upon 
all  to  believe,  that  each  single  incident  or 
experience,  small  or  great,  whether  it  be 
innocent  joy  and  brave  enterprise,  whether 
it  be  sad  patience  or  dreary  endurance, 
whether  it  be  sin  or  shame,  weaves  and  re- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      131 

solves  itself,  at  last,  into  the  heavenly  har- 
mony; and  that  there  is  awaiting  us  a  joy 
in  which  even  our  most  abject  failures,  our 
ugliest  transgressions,  will  bear  their  part,  a 
joy  indeed  which  could  not  be  perfect  with- 
out them ;  and  that  our  nearness  to  the  goal 
of  our  desire  is  shown  not  by  our  com- 
placency and  our  satisfaction,  our  success 
and  our  pride,  but  by  our  shame  and  regret 
for  all  that  has  been  amiss,  our  humility, 
our  mistrust,  our  conscious  weakness.  Even 
in  this  life  we  may  pass  a  stage  beyond 
that,  into  a  trained  submission,  a  wise 
tranquillity;  but  we  must,  like  the  Lord  of 
Life,  at  some  time  or  another  have  de- 
scended into  hell.  The  ascent  cannot  be- 
gin midway,  it  must  be  from  the  bottom. 
And  to  begin  the  climb,  we  must  have  had 
a  moment  of  utter  abandonment  and  de- 
spair, when  all  the  waves  and  streams  of 
God  pass  over  us,  and  when  we  seem  to 


132       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

have  nothing  we  can  call  our  own  but  a 
timid,  naked,  worthless,  helpless  soul.  To 
some  that  comes  swiftly  enough;  to  others, 
whose  pride  of  heart  and  intellect  is  strong, 
only  after  long  struggle  and  inglorious  de- 
feat. For  the  essence  of  it  is  its  ignominy 
and  its  disgrace;  as  long  as  one  can  per- 
suade oneself  that  it  has  anything  romantic 
about  it,  that  it  is  a  kind  of  picturesque 
ruin,  so  long  the  mind  is  but  holding  up 
a  desperate  shield  against  the  truth.  The 
shield  once  lowered,  the  naked  horror 
once  confessed,  the  total  and  entire  defeat 
once  realised,  some  advance  is  possible,  if 
one  sets  oneself  humbly  and  patiently  to 
tread  the  narrow  and  intricate  path  out  of 
one's  disasters.  The  one  inseparable  and 
inextricable  thing  is  self;  we  cannot  escape 
from  that;  it  is  the  one  inalienable  posses- 
sion that  we  have,  and  from  which  we  can- 
not be  parted;  and  if  it  is  true  that  it  is 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff       133 

this  self  which  has  wrought  all  the  dis- 
aster, and  sits  shuddering  in  the  wreck,  it 
is  equally  true  that  only  through  the  same 
self  can  one  escape.  It  must  be  recast,  re- 
moulded, made  anew.  It  is  useless  to  lose 
time  in  asking  why  it  was  allowed  to  be  so 
perverse,  so  ineffectual.  The  failure  is 
there. 


XIV 

If  we  believe  in  the  Father  and  His  good 
purpose  towards  us,  what  we  require  of 
affliction  and  of  suffering,  what  we  have  a 
right  to  require,  is  this,  that  it  should  be 
felt  to  be  helping  us  and  purifying  us.  God 
gives  us  a  natural  sense  of  justice,  implant- 
ing it  deep  in  our  hearts;  and  it  is  through 
this  sense  of  justice  that  all  the  best  vic- 
tories of  humanity  have  been  won;  though 
the  gradual  recognition  that  others  have 
rights  as  well  as  we,  and  that  their  rights 
must  not  be  sacrificed  to  our  convenience 
and  pleasure,  because  we  have  the  power 
to  sacrifice  them,  has  been  slow  indeed.  If 
then  this  sense  of  justice  is  the  highest 
thing  within  us,  the  thing  which  most  dif- 
ferentiates us  from  the  beast — and  we  can- 
134 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      135 

not  doubt  it — we  have  a  right  to  protest 
boldly,  if  it  shall  seem  to  be  violated.  Of 
course  we  must  be  quite  clear  that  what 
we  claim  for  ourselves  is  just,  and  that  our 
sense  of  justice  does  not  merely  demand 
that  we  should  have  exactly  what  we  prefer, 
or  that  if  we  offend,  we  shall  be  excused 
the  consequences.  We  must  be  perfectly 
candid  about  this  with  ourselves,  or  the 
whole  consideration  is  in  vain.  If  we  have 
perversely  indulged  some  fault  of  sen- 
suality, or  temper,  or  wilfulness,  or  levity, 
knowing  that  it  was  a  fault,  and  trusting 
vaguely  in  the  good-nature  of  God  not  to 
be  hard  on  it,  then  we  have  earned  our 
punishment,  and  it  is  not  for  us  to  decide 
what  that  punishment  may  be. 

I  was  talking  the  other  day  to  a  friend 
about  the  life  of  a  very  wise  and  faithful 
priest,  who  had  had  to  bear  long  and  griev- 
ous affliction,  which  left  him  in  utter  dark- 


136      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

ness  of  mind,  and  suspended  the  work  he 
was  doing  in  the  world.  I  said  to  my 
friend,  "  Tell  me  this.  Did  he  trace  any 
benefit  to  himself  from  what  he  suffered? 
Did  he  feel  that  it  had  effected  anything 
for  his  spirit? "  "  No,"  said  my  friend, 
very  gravely,  "  he  did  not.  He  was  not 
concerned  with  that.  He  looked  upon  it  as 
a  chastisement  for  his  sin." 

To  the  thoughts  of  those  who  knew  best 
the  man  of  whom  I  am  speaking,  it  seemed 
as  though  there  was  no  sin  apparent  in  his 
nature,  and  that  the  suffering  he  endured 
was  but  the  strain  of  his  physical  forces 
resulting  from  an  eager  sense  of  respon- 
sibility and  an  overpowering  desire  to  help 
others  in  their  troubles.  But  it  was  a  fine 
answer,  if  it  meant,  as  I  think  it  meant, 
that  the  sufferer  did  not  rebel,  but  ac- 
quiesced with  all  his  will  in  what  he 
endured. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      137 

The  Father  cannot  have  it  in  His  heart 
that  we  should  merely  be  crushed  and 
silenced  by  our  punishment ;  that  we  should 
submit,  simply  because  there  is  no  way  out, 
as  a  little  bird  submits  to  be  torn  by  a 
hawk.  If  our  submission  is  like  that,  it  is 
worth  nothing;  it  only  plunges  our  spirit 
in  deeper  darkness.  If  I  thought  thus  of 
the  Father  of  men,  that  He  was  merely  a 
tyrant  who,  because  He  was  angry  or 
cruel,  struck  at  any  creature  near  Him,  and 
was  amused  to  see  it  writhe  and  suffer,  then 
I  should  indeed  despair;  my  life  would 
then  be  lived  on  lines  of  craven  fear,  just 
hoping,  if  I  could,  not  to  offend,  and  per- 
haps to  escape  notice.  But  I  do  not  believe 
that.  I  believe  that  if  I  do  not  escape 
notice,  and  if  I  am  plunged  in  affliction,  it 
is  affliction  which  is  designed  to  meet  my 
case,  and  to  bring  me  joy  in  the  days  to 
come. 


138       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

Of  course  we  must  not  be  in  a  hurry 
to  decide  whether  punishment  is  just  or  un- 
just. If  our  plans  are  thwarted,  if  we  lie 
in  anguish  of  body  or  soul,  if  we  see  an- 
other dear  to  us  in  pain  and  misery  and 
cannot  help  him,  wTe  must  not  at  once  cry 
out  that  it  is  all  unjust  and  cruel.  We 
live  in  space  and  time,  and  there  must  be 
a  sowing  and  a  growth  before  the  harvest. 
But  if  when  the  suffering  is  over,  and  on 
looking  back  at  it  we  see  that  it  did  in- 
deed minister  to  strength  and  hope  and 
purity,  then  we  may  feel,  not  joyfully  per- 
haps, or  even  gratefully,  but  still  with  our 
will  and  our  reason,  that  this  present  terri- 
ble trial,  which  seems  so  hopeless  and  so 
utterly  without  promise  of  good,  may  yet 
be  rich  in  hope  and  comfort. 

"  It  would  not  steel  the  aching  will 
To  courage,  were  it  sweet  to  bear." 

And  further,  we  must  surely  most  of  us 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      139 

realise  that  we  have  in  our  natures  some- 
thing that  needs  to  be  broken,  sternly,  and 
unconditionally.  I  do  not  know  how  it 
may  be  with  others,  but  I  recognise  in  my- 
self something  terribly  stubborn,  perverse, 
and  complacent,  something  which  gluts  it- 
self greedily  on  praise  and  success,  as  a 
beast  that  growls  and  glares  over  its  food, 
and  is  wholly  absorbed  in  its  own  ugly 
satisfaction.  I  recognise  in  myself  a  mean 
desire  to  attain  rather  than  to  deserve,  a 
foolish  vanity  of  mind,  a  perverse  indolence, 
a  timid  shrinking  from  anything  hard  or 
disagreeable,  an  eager  desire  for  sensuous 
delight.  I  know  that  I  am  unloving,  dis- 
loyal, untender,  inconsiderate,  and  regard 
my  own  convenience  far  more  than  I  re- 
gard the  welfare  of  others.  Moreover,  I 
recognise  in  myself  a  most  peevish  impa- 
tience, a  light-minded  dislike  of  all  hin- 
drances and  obstacles  to  my  desires  and 


140      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

designs,  a  claim  that  my  hurried  and  ill- 
considered  work  should  at  once  bear  rich 
fruit,  an  extreme  intolerance  of  any  opinion 
but  my  own. 

I  make  some  fitful  attempts  to  combat 
these  qualities,  but  they  are  woefully 
strong,  and  have  a  way  of  showing  their 
heads  even  when  I  believe  them  to  be 
eradicated. 

All  this  must,  I  sorrowfully  see,  be 
broken  down  before  I  can  make  progress. 
I  did  not  indeed,  as  far  as  I  know,  choose 
these  weaknesses  and  failings,  but  they  are 
there,  and  no  peace  of  mind  is  possible 
while  they  are  there. 

And  thus  I  seem  to  discern  that  I  must 
somehow  make  an  unconditional  surrender, 
and  that  no  real  betterment  is  possible  till 
these  evil  weeds  are  extirpated. 

In  the  sad  days  of  which  I  ha^e  spoken, 
it  seemed  to  me,  not  once  or  twice,   but 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      141 

day  by  day,  that  I  was  utterly  at  bay.  I 
did,  no  doubt,  exaggerate  my  evil  case,  for 
the  misery  of  such  experience  is  that  all 
the  hopeful  and  joyful  elements  of  life  are 
sucked  away.  But  it  did  at  least  leave  me 
sincerely  and  candidly  face  to  face  with 
my  own  spirit;  and  I  was  forced  to  gaze 
at  myself  in  the  mirror  of  truth,  to  see  the 
haggard  lines  of  evil,  the  deep  wrinkles  of 
self-will,  the  havoc  which  light-mindedness 
and  insincerity  and  timidity  had  made  upon 
my  inner  countenance.  In  the  absence  of 
all  comforting  complacency,  all  hopes  for 
the  future,  all  joy  in  the  present,  all 
triumph  in  the  past,  I  was  forced  to  see 
with  a  shocking  clearness  what  I  had  done 
to  my  soul. 


XV 

Now  let  me  turn  away  from  my  little  own 
experience  to  the  experience  of  two  great 
lives  of  the  last  century,  Euskin  and  Car- 
lyle.  It  so  happens  that  by  the  profuse 
publication  of  the  most  intimate  and  pri- 
vate documents,  we  have  a  wonderfully 
minute  and  inspiring  record  of  the  lives 
and  sufferings  of  these  two  great  spirits. 

Euskin  was  a  man  who  all  his  life  spoke 
about  himself  and  his  emotions  with  a 
candour  for  which  we  may  feel  wholly 
grateful,  even  if  we  do  not  entirely  admire 
it.  He  had  most  of  the  things  which  we 
account  blessings  showered  lavishly  upon 
him.  He  had  great  wealth,  a  marvellous 
joy  of  perception,  an  extreme  love  of  beauti- 
ful things,  high  ability  and  industry,  early 
142 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      143 

and  abundant  fame,  and  a  wide  power  of 
attracting  and  impressing  men  and  women. 
But  for  all  this  his  life  was  one  of  the 
most  constantly  and  consciously  unhappy, 
after  his  youth  was  left  behind,  which  it 
is  possible  to  find.  His  social  theories  were 
derided,  his  schemes  were  despised,  his 
affections  sharply  criticised.  He  had  many 
times  over  the  intense  humiliation  of  hav- 
ing to  descend  into  the  dreadful  shadow- 
land  of  insanity.  His  style  was  praised 
by  critics  who  made  bitter  fun  of  his  sug- 
gestions. He  felt  himself  a  failure  when 
his  fame  was  widespread  and  secure.  He 
could  not  gain  the  love  of  the  one  woman 
he  desired  to  win;  and  the  load  of  sorrow 
that  he  had  to  bear  was  written  plainly 
on  his  drawn  face  and  haggard  eyes. 

But  yet  one  feels  all  through  that  the 
man  grew  nobler  every  year  through  his 
torment;  and  indeed  that  his  real  nobility 


144       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

of  spirit  never  appeared  at  all  until  his 
sorrows  fell  upon  kirn.     We  must  not  be 
deluded  by  the  glamour  of  his  fame  into 
thinking  that  we  could  bear  the  same  pain 
if  it  were  only  counterbalanced  by  the  same 
renown,  because  his  fame  was  nothing  to 
him,  if  he  was  even  aware  of  it.     And  one 
does  feel  on  closing  the  great  record,  that 
he  did  at  last  gain  something  through  his 
reluctant  and  grievous  submission,  which 
sets    him    among   the   high    spirits   of   the 
earth  in  a  way  which  all  his  natural  gifts 
could  never  have  sufficed  to  do.     He  had 
the  seal  of  greatness  in  the  power  of  tor- 
menting himself  even  to  madness  about  the 
ills  of  others,  which   he  tried  in  vain   to 
remedy;  and  the  real  crucifixion  of  spirit 
which  he  endured  came  to  him  through  his 
powerlessness  to  set  things  straight  in  his 
own  way  and  at  his  own  pace. 

And  then  consider  Carlyle,  a  far  stronger 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      145 

and  grimmer  nature,  who  did  not,  as  Ruskin 
did,  desire  that  men  should  be  drawn  by 
the  exquisite  beauty  of  nature  and  art,  and 
by  the  gracious  ordering  of  life,  into  a  rea- 
sonable and  ardent  peace  of  spirit.  Car- 
lyle  had  the  instincts  of  the  peasant  and 
the  Puritan.  He  loved  fighting  as  Ruskin 
loved  lecturing.  He  too  desired  that  men 
should  instantly  conform  to  his  idea  of 
sturdy  labour  and  incisive  speech,  and  if 
they  would  not,  let  them  be  taught,  like  the 
men  of  Succoth,  with  thorns  and  briars 
and  resounding  blows.  There  was  room, 
no  doubt,  for  both  of  these  gospels — the 
gospel  of  beauty  and  the  gospel  of  strength. 
But  Carlyle  had  to  learn,  by  miserable 
health,  and  by  the  anguish  of  remorse  for 
having  gone  far,  out  of  mere  thoughtless 
selfishness,  to  break  one  of  the  most  lov- 
ing hearts  in  the  world,  that  he  could  not 
have  his  own  way  or  work  his  own  will. 


146      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

He  too  had  to  make  his  submission,  and 
he  made  it  gallantly  and  humbly,  in  sorrow 
and  tears. 

But  it  may  be  said  that  these  two  men 
were  giants  of  intellect  and  perception,  and 
that  the  case  is  far  different  for  those  who, 
in  dull  routine  and  undistinguished  dreari- 
ness, have  to  submit,  without  the  distrac- 
tion at  least  of  knowing  that  they  are 
acting  a  big  part  on  the  stage  of  the  world. 
But  it  is  not  so;  it  may  be  a  stimulus  to 
act  decorously,  if  one  knows  that  many 
eyes  are  upon  one;  but  for  most  men  the 
sense  of  publicity,  when  their  hour  of  suffer- 
ing comes,  is  simply  nothing  more  than  an 
added  woe.  They  feel  that  they  could  just 
bear  it  if  they  could  withdraw  into  some 
secret  and  solitary  place  and  suffer  alone. 
But  their  life  is  knit  up  with  so  many  other 
lives,  that  sympathy  and  inquiry  pour  in 
upon   them   when   their   vital   force   seems 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      147 

only  just  equal  to  the  task  of  endurance; 
and  behind  that  is  the  peering  and  in- 
quisitive world,  blowing  its  bubbles  of 
gossip,  exaggerating,  chuckling,  distorting, 
misapprehending.  Even  the  most  secret 
suffering  of  the  great  must  be  telegraphed 
from  shore  to  shore. 

But — for  these  things  must  be  fairly  and 
courageously  faced — what  can  be  said  of 
and  to  those  spirits  who,  on  looking  back 
at  past  suffering,  are  merely  bewildered  and 
dismayed  by  it,  and  can  trace  in  it  nothing 
but  cruelty  and  waste?  They  cannot  see 
where  or  why  the  sad  tangle  began;  they 
only  know  that  the  lights  went  out  one  by 
one,  that  evil  came  in  like  a  creeping  tide, 
and  that  in  their  dreary  respites  they  only 
fell  helplessly  back  upon  the  old  stratagems 
and  the  diminishing  enjoyments,  to  distract 
themselves,  by  any  means  in  their  power, 
from  the  hideous  vacuity  of  life.     What  can 


148       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

be  said  of  the  dreadful  stories  revealed  at 
inquests,  or  whispered  in  the  ears  of  priests 
and  physicians,  when  the  glimmering  flame 
of  tortured  life  flickers  and  fades?  Sucli 
suffering  is  bearable  if  there  is  a  visible 
sequel  of  peace  and  energy;  but  if  there 
is  not,  if  death  comes  as  a  mere  relief,  as 
a  door  closed  upon  a  hopeless  tragedy,  what 
is  one  to  make  of  that?  Then  one  can  but 
fall  back  upon  the  inalienable  residue  of 
hope,  which  even  reason  with  all  its  ap- 
paratus cannot  extinguish.  We  can  assure 
ourselves,  by  the  fact  that  qualities  awake 
and  develop,  even  in  children,  which  can- 
not be  the  result  of  any  experience,  but 
must  signify  some  previous  life-history, 
some  previous  chapter  of  soul-events,  we 
can  assure  ourselves,  I  say,  that  there  is  a 
sequel,  even  though  we  cannot  see  it.  That 
a  life  is  but  as  a  day  with  its  opening  and 
Closing  light,  in  a  long  sequence  of  days. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      149 

To  say  that  it  is  not  so,  is  as  if  a  child 
were  to  persist,  in  the  fading  of  the  twi- 
light colours,  that  it  had  looked  its  last 
upon  the  sun.  Every  faculty  that  we  have, 
reason,  hope,  love,  faith,  tells  us  that  there 
is  a  further  dawn  for  the  failing  spirit, 
when  the  poor  body  sinks  into  ruin;  and 
are  our  feeble  sense-perceptions  so  mighty 
that  they  are  to  contradict  all  those  larger 
and  deeper  faculties?  Is  it  not  strange 
that  while  we  cannot  conceive  of  any  be- 
ginning or  ending  of  matter,  of  any  pro- 
cess which  should  bring  a  new  atom  into 
existence,  or  make  any  atom  cease  to  be, 
we  should  yet  speak  and  think  as  though 
the  soul  should  cease  to  be?  The  tomb- 
stone no  more  announces  the  end  of  the 
spirit  than  it  announces  the  destruction  of 
the  mortal  body.  The  tombstone  marks 
but  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  a  chapter 
of  life;  and  while  it  mournfully  announces 


150      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

the  birth  and  death  of  a  human  being,  the 
mortal  frame  of  that  human  being  is  pass- 
ing on  among  a  thousand  other  forms,  and 
the  spirit  is  alive,  shared  perhaps  among 
a  thousand  other  spirits,  but  still  inevitably 
there. 


XVI 

It  is  in  happiness  that  our  true  life  lies — ■ 
I  do  not  think  that  any  one  can  continue 
long  in  sorrow  without  perceiving  that — 
in  sorrow  we  but  endure,  waiting  to  live 
again.  For  weeks  together  I  was  not  con- 
scious of  life  at  all,  only  of  something  sus- 
pended and  overclouded,  with  the  grievous 
necessity  upon  me  of  pretending  to  be  alive, 
waking  from  sleep,  rising,  hanging  my 
clothes  upon  me,  stepping  out  into  the 
world,  stumbling  on  with  my  burden.  But 
I  never  for  an  instant  mistook  it  for  life. 
The  most  that  one  could  hope  was  that  it 
might  be  doing  something  for  one,  mould- 
ing, disciplining,  changing  the  quality  of 
one's  joy. 

I  never  had  any  great  taste  for  what  is 
151 


152       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

called  pleasure ;  excitement,  movement,  com- 
petition in  any  form  had  always  been  a 
troubling  of  the  serene  and  easy  monotony 
in  which  I  like  best  to  dwell;  and  I  doubt 
if  true  life  ever  resides  very  much  in  the 
excitement  of  life.  One  may  grow  to  need 
excitement,  to  depend  upon  it,  as  one  de- 
pends by  habit  upon  any  other  sort  of 
stimulus;  but  an  urgent  love  of  excitement 
is  always  the  result  of  a  certain  fear  of 
being  alone  with  oneself,  the  fear  of  the 
clouded,  restless,  jaded  mood,  which  is  one 
of  the  shadows  of  the  body,  and  does  not 
belong  to  the  inner  mind  at  all.  The  hap- 
piest times  of  life  are  the  times  when  one 
has  had  congenial  claims  of  duty,  work, 
and  love  to  satisfy,  and  when  one  has  never 
paused,  as  the  full  and  eager  days  sped 
along,  to  wonder  whether  one  is  happy  or 
to  wish  things  different.  How  often  has 
one  seen  the  vague  restlessness  of  youth, 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      153 

the  discontent,  the  sense  of  pottering  along 
with  an  education  which  did  not  seem  to 
be  feeding  the  heart  and  mind,  or  leading 
anywhere  in  particular,  disappear,  instanta- 
neously and  simply,  in  a  healthy  sort  of 
objectivity,  at  the  touch  of  real  work  and 
wrorldly  business.  In  education  itself,  how 
foolishly  we  talk  and  think  as  if  it  were 
a  rigid  process  to  which  all  must  be  sub- 
jected, an  acquisition  of  definite  informa- 
tion, while  we  pass  by  and  overlook  the 
educative  value  of  life-work.  Education  as 
we  administer  it,  is  often  a  mere  prolonga- 
tion of  an  artificial  immaturity.  I  have 
known  many  young  men,  whose  judgment 
has  remained  childish  and  capricious,  whose 
sense  of  proportion  has  been  grotesque, 
whose  only  serious  thoughts  have  been 
given  to  athletic  ambitions,  suddenly  flower 
into  sense  and  fairness  and  sympathy  in  a 
year  of  real  work,  of  real  contact  with  the 


154       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

world.  One  does  not  want  to  hurl  the 
young  into  premature  anxieties,  but  happi- 
ness is  only  to  be  found  in  experience,  in 
real  relations  with  others,  in  learning  when 
to  submit  our  own  fancies  to  social  wel- 
fare, in  compromise,  in  sacrifice;  much  of 
that  of  course  enters  into  the  strangely 
artificial  life  of  our  schools  and  colleges; 
but  I  think  we  are  much  to  blame  in 
nurturing  for  the  sake  of  convenience  so 
unreal  a  standard  of  values,  in  making  so 
much  of  bodily  prowess  and  mental  dex- 
terity, in  taking  so  little  notice  of  quiet 
unselfish  sturdy  virtues,  unless  they  are 
accompanied  by  some  degree  of  accomplish- 
ment and  performance.  I  am  sure  that  I 
suffered  very  much  from  leading  a  life 
which,  until  the  date  when  I  left  the  Uni- 
versity, was  little  more  than  a  pleasant 
and  sentimental  dream.  It  seems  to  me 
now  that  instead  of  having  been  shown  the 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      155 

duty  of  co-operation  with  others,  I  was 
stirred  and  encouraged  only  to  the  feeblest 
sort  of  self-effectuation;  to  earn  one's  plea- 
sure by  complying  with  the  demands  of  work 
was  the  highest  ideal  that  was  ever  held 
up  to  us.  The  goal  of  personal  distinction 
was  what  we  all  aimed  at,  and  what  we 
were  advised  to  aim  at.  But  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  happiness  is  ever  attained  on 
those  lines  at  all.  The  reward  of  labour 
is  not  the  crown  and  the  prize,  but  life 
itself.  But  one  was  taught  to  disregard 
the  homely  tracts  of  life  as  far  as  possible, 
and  to  fix  one's  heart  upon  some  triumph, 
the  realisation  of  some  ambition,  and  when 
it  was  gained,  the  thirsty  soul  propounded 
to  itself  another  draught  of  success,  at  which 
it  had  to  clutch  in  turn.  But  the  happi- 
ness at  which  we  ought  to  aim  is  not  the 
happiness  of  the  triumphant  moment,  be- 
cause it  is  not  the  best  part  of  the  mind 


156      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

which  desires  success.  The  idea  that  the 
successful  boy  was  ever  to  feel  a  moment's 
sympathy  with  his  disappointed  rivals  would 
have  been  swept  away  as  priggish  and 
affected.  Part  of  the  joy  was  that  he  had 
won  what  all  desired,  and  what  only  one 
could  win.  And  I  now  firmly  believe  that 
competition,  which  was  the  one  supreme 
motive  force  in  my  own  education  from 
first  to  last,  is  a  thing  which  ought  to  be 
minimised  and  neglected  as  far  as  possible. 
Happiness  ought  to  be  shown  to  consist  in 
living  life  to  the  full,  in  the  interchange 
of  labour  and  rest,  in  the  use  of  every 
faculty  that  we  call  our  own.  "  Ah,"  says 
the  cautious  sophist,  "  that  is  all  very  well ! 
But  it  ends  in  a  mere  mass  of  dilettante 
tastes ;  a  resolute  self-limitation  is  the  only 
condition  of  success."  I  grant  it.  But  it 
has  yet  to  be  proved  that  success  is  the 
end  to  aim  at.     The  truth  is  that  there  are 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      157 

two  tendencies  now  struggling  together  in 
the  heart  of  man;  one  is  the  old  Homeric 
conception  of  the  hero  and  the  herd.  The 
herd  are  to  be  the  patient  audience,  the 
astonished  negligible  gazers  at  the  feats  of 
the  mighty.  Step  from  the  herd  if  you 
can;  coerce,  frighten,  dazzle,  command!  or 
else  hold  your  peace  and  be  content  to  ad- 
mire! But  the  rising  tendency  is  very  dif- 
ferent; it  is  to  let  the  hero  alone  to  exult 
in  his  strength;  but  to  give  every  oppor- 
tunity, every  encouragement  possible  to  the 
weak  and  frail  and  dull;  to  give  energy 
and  hope  to  all;  to  see  that  each  has  due 
experience,  and  a  chance  of  living  life  fully 
and  freely. 

I  think  that  one  of  the  chief  miseries  I 
had  to  endure,  when  my  energies  ran  low 
and  my  brain  was  blighted  by  illness,  was 
that,  brought  up  as  I  had  been  with  a  false 
conception  of  happiness,  a  neglect  of  life 


158       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

itself  in  favour  of  success,  I  lost  for  a 
time  all  interest  in  living  on.  Life  seemed 
futile  without  an  object  in  view,  without  a 
performance  to  enact,  without  a  triumph  in 
sight.  I  had  been  taught  to  sweep  away 
all  labour,  all  effort,  when  it  was  over,  as 
the  dust  and  chips  of  the  workshop.  I  had 
never  learned  to  keep  my  eye  firmly  and 
seriously  on  life  itself  as  it  passed.  It  was 
all  work  with  an  end,  or  pleasure  earned, 
or  justified  idleness.  To  the  question  "What 
are  you  doing?  "  one  was  expected  to  reply, 
"  I  have  this  in  view,  I  have  that  book  on 
the  stocks,  I  am  thinking  of  standing  for 
that  post."  To  have  said  "  I  am  living," 
would  have  seemed  perverse  or  affected. 

And  thus  it  is  that  we  many  of  us  miss 
the  meaning  of  life,  and  therewith  happiness 
as  well.  The  necessity  is  to  have  occupa- 
tions, recreations,  relations  with  others.  It 
may  have  been  only  the  result  of  my  own 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff       159 

blindness  and  carelessness,  but  I  do  not 
ever  remember  that  it  was  brought  firmly 
before  me  by  talk  or  by  sermon,  that  one's 
relations  with  others  were  important  things 
at  all.  One  must  be  obedient,  one  must 
avoid  bad  company,  because  it  was  hurtful 
to  one's  career.  The  publican  and  the 
sinner  were  disreputable  people,  to  asso- 
ciate with  whom  endangered  one's  health 
and  one's  income.  I  have  no  doubt  that 
it  was  said  to  us  in  sermons  that  one  must 
do  one's  duty,  without  thinking  of  the  re- 
ward. But  while  at  the  same  time  every 
one's  place  in  every  examination  was 
printed,  while  prizes  were  rained  down 
upon  the  successful  scholar,  while  every 
sort  of  deference  was  conceded  to  the 
prominent  athlete,  life  was  a  perpetual  con- 
tradiction of  those  mild  warnings.  I  do 
not  think  I  was  ever  told  that  life  was 
given  me  to  be  interested  in,  that  affections 


i6o       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

were  to  be  carefully  tended,  that  courtesy, 
kindness,  good-humour,  unselfishness,  were 
possessions  a  thousand  times  more  delight- 
ful than  a  prize  or  a  cap,  that  work  was 
a    thing    to    be    enjoyed    like    running    or 
swimming,  that  the  power  of  mastering  an 
uninteresting  thing  was  even  better  than 
the  power  of  mastering  an  interesting  thing, 
and  that  life  itself,  every  hour,  every  mo- 
ment, was  or  could  be  wonderful,  interest- 
ing, active,  delightful.     I  never  thought  of 
my  school  or  my  college  as  of  a  community 
enjoying  together  a  full  and  eager  experi- 
ence, or  that  one  must  give  all  that  one 
could,    share    everything,    enact   one's   full 
part.     I  rather  thought  of  them  as  places 
where  one  got  all  one  could,  made  a  little 
bodyguard  of  friends,  kept  tiresome  people 
at   a   distance,    outpaced   them,    impressed 
them.     When  one  went  home,  one  put  the 
whole  thing  out  of  one's  head,  never  thought 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      161 

of  one's  friends  or  one's  activities,  just  got 
all  the  pleasure  one  could  out  of  the  do- 
mestic circle.  I  do  not  think  that  this  was 
a  deliberate  selfishness — it  was  rather  how 
one  had  instinctively  learned  to  treat  life. 

There  is  no  danger  that  boys  and  young 
men  will  ever  think  too  much  of  the  social 
duty  of  sharing;  but  I  am  sure  that  all 
the  guidance  and  direction  they  get  ought 
to  be  in  that  direction,  and  not  in  the 
direction  of  teaching  them  to  take  and 
keep  what  they  can.  Above  all  they  should 
be  encouraged  to  face  the  mystery  of  life, 
the  wonder  of  it,  the  fulness  of  it,  bravely 
and  hopefully;  to  think  of  it  as  a  splendid 
gift  and  opportunity,  to  be  used  generously 
and  sweetly,  not  as  a  great  heap  of  con- 
venient things  from  which  one  must  filch 
as  many  tit-bits  as  one  can.  There  is  a 
homely  old  story,  where  the  kindly  mother 
at  the  table  says  to  her  greedy  little  boy 


162       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

who  is  helping  himself  to  more  of  a  tart, 
"  Don't  take  any  more  of  that,  Tom ! 
Don't  you  see  that  the  servants  will  want 
to  have  some?  " 

When  I  fell  into  my  own  trouble,  the 
bitterness  of  it  lay  there — that  there  seemed 
to  be  nothing  more  to  be  got  from  life.  I 
could  not  see  that  I  ought  to  have  per- 
ceived that  I  was  still  living  and  experi- 
encing. I  turned  helplessly  to  my  friends, 
and  found  it  disagreeable  to  feel  dependent 
on  them.  I  felt  that  I  had  nothing  to  give 
them,  as  though  forsooth  that  were  the 
basis  of  affection,  and  I  could  not  be  con- 
tent to  enjoy  their  goodness  and  sympathy ! 
Still  less  could  I  see  then,  as  I  can  see  now, 
that  the  hopeless  endurance,  the  having  to 
struggle  on,  clouded  and  abject,  was  one  of 
the  finest  experiences  that  had  ever  befallen 
me.  If  I  had  had  a  larger  and  more  gen- 
erous view  of  the  worth  of  experience   I 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff       163 

might  have  endured  with  more  courage  and 
patience,  even  with  more  interest  in  what 
was  happening. 

But  though,  as  I  have  said,  I  do  not 
doubt  that  our  real  life  lies  in  happiness, 
in  serene  activity,  in  giving  rather  than  re- 
ceiving, and  though  one  must  never  mistake 
suffering  for  life  or  sorrow  for  the  ulti- 
mate reality,  yet  I  am  sure  that  we  do  not 
regard  life  itself  enough ;  we  waste  time 
in  retrospect  and  prospect.  The  past  is 
nothing,  except  as  it  leaves  us  to-day;  the 
future  is  what  it  will  be;  and  the  essence 
of  life  is  to  live  as  the  motto  says,  in  dies 
ad  diem,  day  by  day,  until  the  day  shall 
come — the  day  of  larger  hope,  of  stronger 
experience,  of  fuller  life. 


XVII 

How  wearisome  books  of  travel  generally 
are  to  read !  The  descriptions  of  places  do 
not  give  one  the  least  idea  of  the  scene  or 
the  details;  it  is  all  a  confused  mass  of 
impressions,  like  an  old  rubbish-heap.  The 
simplest  sketch,  half-a-dozen  pencil  strokes, 
will  often  give  one  a  better  idea  of  a  place 
than  pages  of  description;  it  is  difficult  to 
see  why  words  should  be  so  vague,  so  in- 
capable of  precise  delineation.  What  an 
intensely  definite  thing,  for  instance,  a  hu- 
man face  is!  One  sees  faces  which  photo- 
graph themselves  instantaneously  upon  the 
memory,  and  yet  what  an  utterly  im- 
possible task  to  describe  a  face  in  such 

a  way  that  any  one  reading  the  descrip- 
164 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      165 

tion  can  form  any  notion  of  what  it  is 
like. 

The  reason  why  books  of  travel  are  so 
unsatisfactory  is,  I  suppose,  that  prosaic 
people  go  to  fine  places,  and  feel  them- 
selves so  much  stirred  and  uplifted  by  the 
novelty  and  beauty  of  what  they  have  seen, 
that  they  are  compelled  to  relate  the  ex- 
periences, because  they  seem  to  them  so 
unusual  a  kind  of  poetry,  like  an  in- 
spiriting march  to  the  sound  of  unseen 
music. 

Yet  if  the  right  person  writes  a  book  of 
travel,  what  a  glow  and  brightness  it  all 
has;  it  is  not  that  the  descriptions  repro- 
duce the  scenes,  but  they  force  one  to  form 
pictures  of  one's  own;  in  the  hands  of 
genius,  the  very  food  consumed,  the  trivial 
talk  of  the  persons  encountered,  all  has  a 
value  of  its  own.  It  is  all  symbolic  and 
mysterious,  the  food  a  sacrament  rich  with 


166      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

the  unseen,  the  words  of  strangers  prophetic 
and  suggestive,  like  the  speech  of  angels, 
opening  up  views  and  vistas  of  life,  giving 
news  of  the  eternal  country  to  which  we  all 
belong. 

And  so  one  comes  to  realise  how  little 
the  subjects  of  books  matter  after  all.  The 
subject  is  merely  the  peg  on  which  the  pic- 
ture hangs,  and  what  one  draws  near  to  and 
recognises  is  the  breath  of  life,  the  contact 
of  some  other  human  soul.  That,  after  all, 
is  what  lies  behind  all  furniture  and  houses 
and  cultivated  fields  and  gardens — the  hu- 
man thought  that  went  to  the  making  and 
the  using  of  them;  and  what  lies  behind 
flowers  and  trees,  mountains  and  plains, 
stars  and  sunsets,  is  the  mind  of  God  Him- 
self. One  does  not  know  what  it  is,  but  a 
mind  has  been  at  work,  something  has  de- 
signed and  made  them,  has  taken  pleasure 
in  them,  something  akin  to  ourselves,  with 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      167 

ideas  of  what  is  amusing,  and  beautiful, 
and  strange,  and  terrifying.  It  is  the  sense 
of  friendliness  and  sympathy  and  compan- 
ionship that  one  desires,  the  knowledge  of 
something  awake  and  working  and  planning, 
and  even,  who  knows,  loving. 

One  of  the  worst  pains  I  had  to  bear  was 
when  the  sense  of  all  this  companionship 
faded  from  me ;  when  all  seemed  mechanical 
and  dull,  just  existing  and  moving  from  a 
sort  of  habit,  without  intelligence,  or  life, 
or  joy.  I  knew  that  it  was  a  deception, 
and  that  the  life  was  there,  but  I  could 
not  come  near  it  or  take  any  part  in  it. 
And  then  I  saw  that  one  of  my  many  mis- 
takes had  been  to  find  myself  self-sufficient. 
I  saw  that  I  had  accepted  all  this  compan- 
ionship of  spirits  as  just  the  theatre  of  my 
own  designs,  to  be  reckoned  with  and  dealt 
with  only  so  far  as  they  helped  and  hin- 
dered my  own  satisfaction  and  enterprise. 


1 68       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

The  mistake,  the  loss,  was  not  to  have 
sought  this  fellowship  for  itself,  not  to 
have  tried  to  be  one  with  it,  to  draw  near 
to  it,  to  embrace  it,  to  rest  lovingly  with 
it  and  in  it.  Had  it  been  trying  to  make 
itself  known,  to  win  me  all  the  time?  I 
thought  that  it  had.  But  all  the  hands 
held  out,  the  smiles,  the  offered  caresses, 
the  words  of  love,  I  had  taken  them  all  as 
incidents  of  the  drama,  not  as  the  very 
secret  of  life  itself.  And  even  so,  even  if 
now  I  realised  my  loss,  my  sterility,  my 
hardness,  how  could  I  begin  afresh  and 
take  the  sweet  power  into  my  soul?  That 
I  could  not  tell.  And  so  when  I  found 
that,  as  the  dreary  days  went  on,  some  of 
those  whom  I  had  held  to  be  my  friends 
were  dumb  in  my  presence,  or  withdrew 
themselves  from  me,  or  made  no  sign  of 
sympathy  and  love,  I  could  not  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  blame  them  for  an  instant,  but 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      169 

I  was  all  the  more  deeply  and  tenderly 
grateful  to  the  few  who  came  closer  to  me. 
It  was  strange  to  find  that  they  were  not 
always  those  of  whom  I  should  have  ex- 
pected such  patient  affection,  such  faithful 
loyalty.  Some,  of  whose  help  and  sympathy 
I  felt  secure,  had  not  a  word  for  me;  some, 
whom  I  had  credited  only  with  a  sense  of 
cheerful  congeniality,  came  to  my  aid  again 
and  again,  sought  my  company,  bore  with 
my  melancholy  blankness,  unobtrusively 
and  sweetly  helped  me  to  bear  my  burden. 
They  very  people  whom  I  could  have  im- 
agined excusing  themselves  by  thinking 
that  they  were  sensitive  and  easily  de- 
pressed, and  thus  no  fit  company  for  a  tor- 
tured spirit,  were  those  who  bore  with  me 
most  eagerly;  and  a  thing  that  gave  me 
most  courage  of  all  was  that  though  I  felt 
over  and  over  again,  as  the  long  months 
dragged  away,  that  I  was  using  up  all  the 


170      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

resources  of  friendship,  that  I  could  not 
dare  to  make  any  further  claims,  and  that 
I  must  for  very  decency  drown  alone,  yet 
there  never  failed  some  one  to  slip  forward 
just  when  I  needed  him,  as  though  by  some 
kind  conspiracy  of  succour.  It  all  seemed 
very  little  use  at  the  time,  but  it  forced 
me  to  behave  with  some  courtesy  and  con- 
trol, not  to  pour  out  my  bitterness  into  all 
waters.  And  strange  to  say,  the  one  quality 
that  was  left  to  me,  after  courage  and  hope 
had  long  been  extinguished,  was  a  sort  of 
miserable  courtesy  that  led  me  to  try  my 
best  not  to  make  my  presence  more  irk- 
some and  unpleasant  than  need  be.  It  was 
not  a  very  exalted  kind  of  courtesy,  for  it 
consisted  more  in  a  desire  to  gild  my  own 
misery  a  little,  not  to  let  it  appear  in  all 
its  nakedness.  I  was  sorry  indeed  for  those 
who  could  not  avoid  my  proximity,  but  it 
must  be  sadly  confessed  that  the  aim  of 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      171 

my  feeble  attempts  to  appear  unconcerned 
and  interested,  was  not  to  solace  them,  so 
much  as  to  disguise  the  ugliness  of  my 
barren  brain,  languid  limbs,  and  lowering 
brow. 


XVIII 

And  thus  let  me  advance  to  a  further  point 
and  say  frankly  what  difference  my  new 
idea  of  the  inner  life  of  the  soul  made  in 
my  relations  with  others.  The  danger  of 
a  spiritual  experience  is  that  it  is  so  absorb- 
ing and  so  amazing  that  it  is  apt  for  a 
time  to  blur  and  distort  the  other  values. 
There  is  of  course  a  strong  and  secret  cur- 
rent of  thought  in  humanity,  which  may  be 
regarded  as  the  shadow  of  religion,  or  per- 
haps more  philosophically  as  its  essence  and 
motive-force,  to  seclude  oneself  from  the 
world.  This  is  common  to  all  religions,  all 
attempts  to  realise  and  draw  near  to  God. 
Asceticism,  the  life  of  the  hermit  and  the 
fakir,  the  monastic  life — these  are  all  among 

its  manifestations.     It  lays  deepest  hold  of 
172 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      173 

the  finest  and  purest  spirits,  and  the  es- 
sence of  it,  as  has  well  been  said,  is  "  a 
horror  of  the  most  vital  of  all  impulses,'' 
a  horror  of  reproduction,  ending  in  delib- 
erate childlessness.  It  may  be  questioned 
whether  the  essence  of  it  is  a  terror  of 
fatherhood  and  motherhood,  or  an  intellec- 
tual and  spiritual  disgust  at  the  carnality 
of  the  process.  I  should  believe  myself  that 
it  was  more  the  fastidious  dislike  of  the 
gross  claims  of  the  body;  the  more  that  the 
intellectual  and  spiritual  emotions  are  de- 
veloped, the  more  does  the  mind  resent  the 
intrusion,  the  dictation,  the  frailty  of  the 
body,  and  the  more  does  it  plan  to  keep 
itself  unconscious  as  far  as  possible  of  all 
physical  and  material  impulses.  One  of 
the  most  insoluble  of  all  mysteries  is  the 
process  by  which  the  race  of  man  has  drawn 
away  from  and  ahead  of  the  beasts  of  the 
field  in  inventiveness,   in   imagination,   in 


174       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

ethical  speculation.  He  is  not  nearly  the 
strongest  of  animals,  and  what  the  law  is, 
which  seems  to  have  arbitrarily  designed 
that  one  animal  should  inherit  the  power 
of  reasoning,  of  profiting  by  experience,  of 
using  mechanical  contrivances,  is  wholly 
beyond  our  power  of  speculation.  How  too 
the  suspicion  dawned  upon  man  that  his 
life  here  was  not  necessarily  the  end  of  his 
existence,  is  a  secret  that  cannot  be  dis- 
cerned; yet  the  funeral  arrangements  of 
even  primitive  man  testify  to  a  certain  dim 
belief  that  death  is  not  the  end  of  life.  As 
the  reason  becomes  stronger  and  as  man 
develops  the  power,  apparently  unknown  to 
animals,  of  imagining  the  possibility  of 
things  being  different  to  what  they  are,  a 
disgust  begins  to  grow  up  in  the  mind  at 
the  elements  of  pain  and  failure  and  suffer- 
ing in  life,  so  that  the  mind  forms  the 
design  of  guarding  its  security  and  tran- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      175 

quillity  as  far  as  it  can.  The  effect  upon 
the  higher  spirits  is  that  they  desire  to 
isolate  themselves  as  far  as  possible  from 
unhappy  things,  and  shun  the  ties  and  re- 
lations of  life  which  are  so  fertile  in  un- 
happiness.  Thus  one  gets  the  hermit,  the 
man  who  makes  no  attempt  to  amend  the 
world,  but  simply  desires  to  leave  it.  The 
instinct  to  continue  to  live  is  so  strong 
within  him,  that  this  desire  to  be  free  from 
the  concerns  of  life  has  not  developed  into 
a  cult  of  suicide.  In  the  Christian  Church, 
the  desire  for  isolation  no  doubt  derived  a 
special  sanction  from  the  fact  that  our 
Lord  Himself,  the  perfect  man,  by  His  ex- 
ample showed  that  perfection  did  not  entail 
the  forming  of  any  human  ties.  Then  came 
the  further  stage,  as  the  altruistic  instinct 
became  stronger,  the  belief  that  it  was  pos- 
sible to  be  isolated  from  the  world  and 
yet  to  improve  the  spirituality  of  the  world 


176       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

by  intercessory  prayer;  and  that  conception 
lias  gathered  to  itself  many  sacred  associa- 
tions. If  one  reads  a  book  like  the  Con- 
fessions of  Saint  Augustine,  one  sees  what 
an  intensely  individualistic  conception  per- 
meates it.  The  new  light  which  breaks  in 
upon  him  only  enlightens  him  as  to  his  re- 
lations with  God,  it  does  not  arouse  in  him 
any  impulse  to  the  service  of  other  men. 
It  does  not  occur  to  him  that  to  arrange 
comfortably  and  securely  for  one's  own  tran- 
quillity and  salvation,  to  have,  so  to  speak, 
a  private  understanding  with  God,  is  in  the 
least  a  selfish  conception.  It  seems  to 
Augustine  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world.  Then  that  belief  begins  to  alter  in- 
sensibly, and  the  highest  spirits  begin  to 
turn  away  in  shame  from  a  conception  of 
religion  which  is  merely  a  desire  for  moral 
security,  a  stoical  ideal,  a  deliberate  prac- 
tising   to    become    superior    to    pain    and 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      177 

calamity  by  avoiding  the  desires  and  de- 
signs which  are  quenched  and  marred  by 
suffering,  an  attempt  at  invulnerability. 

More  and  more  do  the  highest  spirits  per- 
ceive that  their  duty  is  to  the  brotherhood 
of  man ;  that  there  is  much  preventable  sor- 
row and  misery  in  the  world,  and  that  their 
work  is  to  persuade  men  to  prevent  it.  But 
still  to  all  highly  sensitive  natures  which 
shrink  from  action  and  effort,  which  are 
revolted  by  the  coarseness,  the  stupidity,  the 
brutality  of  the  world,  it  is  a  great  tempta- 
tion to  get  away  from  it  all,  and  to  live 
life  more  congenially  in  the  contemplation 
of  perfection.  The  contemplative  man  finds 
the  vision  of  moral  purity  and  holiness  so 
ineffably  beautiful  and  sacred,  that  he  is 
sorely  tempted  to  conceal  it,  to  enjoy  it,  to 
lose  himself  in  it.  If  he  speaks  of  it,  the 
rough  comments,  the  dull  derision  of  the 
world  is  so  wounding,  so  cruel,  that  he  does 


178       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

not  venture  to  profane  it.  Here  lie  diverges 
from  the  method  of  Christ,  whose  whole 
teaching  was  devoted  to  setting  out  in  the 
simplest  terms  the  beauty  of  holiness;  and 
the  amazing  secret  growth  of  Christianity, 
which  ran  like  an  electric  pulse  over  the 
world,  testifies  to  the  fact  that  thousands 
of  hearts  had  the  same  dim  vision,  and  only 
needed  that  it  should  be  defined. 

In  the  present  time,  it  seems  to  me,  the 
conception  of  holiness  as  an  inclusive  rather 
than  an  exclusive  force  is  gaining  ground. 
Men  are  beginning  everywhere  to  under- 
stand that  spiritual  happiness  must  not  be 
the  glee  of  possessing  a  secret  treasure,  but  a 
thing  to  be  quietly  spoken  of  and  produced 
and  shared.  Side  by  side  with  that  has 
sprung  up  a  sense  of  the  sanctity  of  hu- 
man relations.  The  tendency  of  modern 
thought  is  to  proclaim  the  love  that  unites 
a  man  and  a  woman  as  one  of  the  great 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      179 

regenerative  forces  of  life.  If  we  look  back 
into  the  minds  of  the  great  nations  of  hu- 
manity, we  see  that  the  Jews,  among  whom 
the  moral  ideal  gained  its  highest  force, 
had  a  very  strong  sense  of  the  sanctity  of 
such  relationships,  while  they  were  not  a 
nation  among  whom  the  ascetic  ideal  had 
any  very  great  force.  The  Romans  re- 
garded marriage  solely  as  a  civil  contract, 
and  even  a  great  idealist  like  Vergil  had 
no  belief  in  the  sacred  power  of  love,  re- 
garding it  rather  as  a  tragical  kind  of  pas- 
sion, which  worked  havoc  among  men. 
Plato  himself,  whose  spiritual  instinct  was 
high  and  clear,  makes  no  pretence  of  rank- 
ing the  love  of  men  and  women  as  among 
the  higher  forces  of  life;  it  was  a  civic 
matter  with  him,  and  the  friendship  between 
man  and  man  was  the  only  high  emotional 
relation  which  he  really  recognised. 

It   was    Christianity    which    first    recog- 


180       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

nised  the  brotherly  affections  of  mankind, 
apart  from  passionate  affections,  as  a  vital 
force:  Christ  spiritualised  love;  He  indi- 
cated the  possibility  of  its  existing  beyond 
the  family  circle,  beyond  even  the  peaceful 
associations  of  men,  and  of  its  extension 
to  the  indifferent  and  hostile. 

Little  attempt  has  been  made  in  the  world 
to  realise  this  conception.  Patriotism,  self- 
interest,  national  expansion,  the  claims  of 
property,  have  been  held  to  be  ethically 
justified  in  superseding  the  vision  of  uni- 
versal love.  That  two  Christian  nations  at 
war  with  each  other  should  each  appeal 
quite  sincerely  to  Christ  to  show  by  blood- 
shed and  conquest  His  approval  of  the 
justice  of  their  cause,  is  a  melancholy  in- 
stance of  the  human  power  of  self-deception, 
and  its  capacity  for  distorting  truth  into 
expediency.  There  are  abundant  signs  to- 
day that  civilised  nations  are  beginning  to 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      181 

feel  the  deplorable  inconsistency  of  this 
attitude.  That  the  possibility  of  general 
disarmament  should  be  openly  discussed  is 
a  clear  enough  proof  that  the  ideal  is  one 
that  is  echoed  by  many  minds. 

These  are  not  merely  impracticable 
dreams.  An  individual  who  feels  that  the 
world  is  advancing  on  these  lines  may  not 
be  able  to  put  an  end  to  the  brutalities  of 
the  world;  but  he  may  resolve  that  his  re- 
ligion, whatever  it  be,  shall  be  frank  and 
unashamed;  that  he  will  attempt  to  cul- 
tivate simple  and  direct  relations  with  all 
with  whom  he  comes  in  contact.  That  he  will 
not  nourish  resentments  nor  entertain  pre- 
judices; that  he  will  not  indulge  in  vehe- 
ment reprisals;  that  he  will  cultivate 
candour  and  good-humour  and  sympathy; 
that  he  will  sacrifice  personal  success  and 
comfort  and  ambition  to  simplicity  and 
loving-kindness.     This  then  was  the  effect 


182       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

of  my  experience :  that  it  made  me  look  out 
into  the  world,  towards  all  those  who 
seemed,  fortuitously  or  designedly,  to  sur- 
round me,  to  claim  my  interest.  The  new 
gift  of  the  spirit,  the  new  secret,  must 
affect  that  relation,  must  make  some  dif- 
ference there.  The  new  impulse,  the  re- 
gained zest,  gave  me  a  greater  curiosity 
than  ever  about  other  people;  but  I  could 
not  now  be  content  with  just  observing 
them,  being  pleased  by  their  peculiarities, 
satisfied  with  detecting  and  assessing  their 
qualities.  I  became  more  and  more  inter- 
ested in  what  they  felt  about  these  wonder- 
ful things,  why  they  felt  as  they  did  and 
acted  as  they  did ;  I  wanted  to  realise  their 
inner  life,  to  share  their  emotions  and 
hopes,  even  their  disappointments  and 
sorrows. 


XIX 

A  friend  of  mine  told  me  the  other  day 

that   he  was   talking   to   a   clever   woman 

about   democracy    and    its    problems,    and 

that  she  made  a  gesture  of  impatience  at 

something  that  he  said.     He  said  to  her  by 

way  of  gentle  provocation,  "  I  see  you  are 

not  interested  in  democracy."     She  paused 

for  a  moment,   and  then  replied,   "  No,   I 

am  not;  I  am  only  interested  in  the  kind  of 

people    whom    democracy    brings    to    the 

front."     One  feels  the  same,  I   think,  the 

moment  that  one  perceives  the  true  worth 

of  human  relationship.     Books,  art  of  all 

kinds,  even  conversation,  become  not  things 

that  one  cares  about  with  a  sort  of  con- 

noisseurship,  but  revelations  of  personality 

— symbols,    indications,    hints,    interpreta- 
183 


1 84       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

tions,  bridges,  so  to  speak,  between  one's 
own  spirit  and  the  spirits  of  others.  After 
all,  it  is  not  the  sculptured  stone  or  the 
high-piled  arch,  or  the  ordered  vibration  of 
musical  sounds,  or  the  combination  of  pig- 
ments in  a  picture,  that  are  beautiful;  it 
is  the  human  spirit  behind,  that  has  found 
something  it  wants  to  express,  that  has 
designed,  contrived,  planned,  and  executed. 
A  friend  of  mine  who  has  latterly  taken 
an  increasingly  definite  line  of  literary 
criticism,  said  to  me  the  other  day :  "  I 
hardly  ever  now  read  a  book  with  any  en- 
joyment of  its  subject  or  ideas;  it  is  now 
almost  entirely  a  question  with  me  of  how 
it  is  done.7'  That  seems  to  me  an  arid 
dictum;  it  is  like  a  connoisseurship  of  food 
and  wine,  from  which  the  humanity  is 
practically  eliminated.  The  epicure  and 
the  gourmet  is  not  interested  in  the  per- 
sonality of  the  cook  or  the  wiue-producer, 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      185 

and  such  connoisseurship  seems  to  me  to 
be  a  sterile,  though  possibly  an  amusing, 
thing.  In  all  art,  of  course,  the  people 
who  want  to  express  themselves  most,  who 
find  themselves  constrained  out  of  sheer 
delight  to  represent,  to  record,  to  imagine, 
to  create,  are  the  vivid  people,  who  cannot 
simply  take  life  as  it  comes,  but  have  to 
criticise  it,  to  interpret  it,  to  render  their 
own  impression  of  it;  and  so  one  cares  less 
and  less  about  what  is  actually  produced, 
and  more  about  the  quality  of  the  soul  be- 
hind it.  The  interest  lies  in  what  people 
are,  even  more  than  in  what  they  do;  but 
the  interest  one  feels  in  any  kind  of  art  is 
the  interest  in  the  conception  rather  than 
in  the  method,  though  of  course  the  more 
perfect  the  method  is  the  more  chance  has  the 
inner  voice  of  making  itself  clearly  heard. 
But  technical  excellence  without  spiritual 
vitality  is  a  very  uninteresting  affair! 


186      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

The  difficulty  with  many  very  vivid  and 
forcible  personalities  is  how  to  get  a  com- 
mon ground  in  which  emotion  can  be  felt. 
It  is  not  uncommon  in  my  experience  to 
meet  a  man  or  a  woman  in  whom  one  per- 
ceives, by  their  effect  on  other  people,  by 
the  influence  they  exert,  by  the  admiration 
and  affection  they  attract,  the  existence  of 
some  fine,  ardent,  impulsive  quality.  Yet 
if  one's  interests  lie  altogether  outside  of 
the  range  of  such  a  person's  interests,  how 
hard  it  is  to  find  a  medium  of  communica- 
tion. I  have  never  found  it  difficult  to 
communicate  with  artists,  even  if  I  know 
very  little  about  the  terms  of  their  art; 
but  I  should  find  it  very  difficult  to  com- 
municate with  engineers,  mathematicians, 
people  interested  in  horse-racing,  military 
men,  if  they  were  absorbed  in  their  sub- 
jects, though  I  might  recognise  in  any  of 
them  vivid  and  ardent  spirits.     Art,  litera- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      187 

ture,  ideas  form  a  common  meeting- ground 
for  me  with  others,  though  I  fully  recognise 
the  fact  that  there  may  be  many  other 
people,  who  do  not  share  in  these  inter- 
ests, who  have  force,  high-mindedness,  gen- 
erosity, affection,  and  other  noble  qualities. 
One  ought  to  extend  the  range  of  one's 
interests  as  far  as  possible,  that  one  may 
recognise  kindred  spirits;  and  it  is  with 
regret  that  one  perceives  that  intellectual 
habits,  artistic  preferences,  nationality,  and 
even  social  customs,  make  a  great  barrier 
between  human  spirits.  But  so  long  as  one 
confesses  frankly  that  there  are  material 
limitations,  so  long  as  one  recognises  the 
live  things  moving  behind  the  veil,  one  need 
not  despair.  What  we  must  avoid,  is  a  be- 
lief that  it  is  easy  to  fall  into,  that  the 
spirits  of  others  are  uninteresting  because 
their  pursuits  seem  uninteresting.  One 
may  recognise  other  spirits  through  their 


1 88      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

pursuits  rather  than  by  them,  while  if  one 
confuses  people  with  their  pursuits  one 
finds  oneself  in  a  ver^  dreary  position 
indeed. 

And  then,  too,  one  must  despise  no  hu- 
man signals — the  signals  of  affection  and 
sympathy,  the  cries  for  help  or  understand- 
ing. It  is  easy  to  do  this,  because  one  finds 
sometimes  that  they  are  only  the  shrill 
laments  of  mortified  vanity,  and  that  peo- 
ple are  looking  out,  not  for  the  sympathy 
which  one  might  give  them,  but  for  the  praise 
which  one  cannot  give  them.  People  often 
write  to  me,  send  me  books  and  manu- 
scripts which  are  nothing  but  worthless 
attempts  to  impress  and  to  claim  unde- 
served applause.  If  such  people  were  to 
say,  "  I  have  something  I  want  to  express, 
but  I  cannot  express  it,"  it  would  be  easy 
enough  to  fraternise;  but  they  often  desire 
only  to  have  their  vanity  reassured,  and 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      189 

that  one  cannot  do.  Indeed  it  is  often 
necessary  that  such  vanity  should  be  morti- 
fied, because  vanity  is  the  thickest  of  all 
the  veils  which  hang  between  our  spirits 
and  other  spirits,  and  it  is  not  until  that 
veil  is  torn  down,  at  whatever  cost,  that 
one  can  begin  to  recognise  other  people  at 
all.  I  do  not  mean  that  it  is  one's  duty 
to  mortify  the  vanity  of  others,  but  it  is 
certainly  a  duty  not  to  feed  it;  and  in- 
sincere praise,  which  often  seems  a  cour- 
teous solution,  is  not  an  expedient  which 
one  may  indulge. 

But  if  only  others  will  speak  candidly 
and  frankly  of  themselves,  even  if  the  self 
revealed  is  a  very  frail  and  shivering  thing, 
it  is  always  deeply  and  truly  interesting; 
and  confession  is  often  a  more  tonic  medi- 
cine even  than  absolution.  I  remember 
once  having  a  long  conversation  with  a  very 
egotistical  young  man,  who  aired  a  petty 


190       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

grievance  with  all  his  might.  I  argued  a 
little  with  him,  but  all  that  he  did  was  to 
cry  peevishly,  "  You  do  not  understand ; 
you  cannot  see  the  matter  from  my  point 
of  view !  "  I  left  it  at  that ;  but  a  little 
while  afterwards  he  told  me  that  the  put- 
ting of  his  case  into  definite  words  had 
altered  his  whole  view  of  it,  and  that  he 
saw  what  a  pitiable  affair  it  all  was.  One 
can  but  follow  one's  instinct  in  such  cases, 
and  I  have  never  done  any  good  myself  by 
being  trenchant,  incisive,  or  even  what  is 
called  sensible;  while  I  have  gained  more 
good  from  people  who  let  me  say  my  say, 
and  just  seemed  rather  ashamed  that  I 
should  talk  so,  than  from  any  expression 
of  contempt  or  indignation. 

But  at  all  costs,  at  whatever  sacrifice  of 
prejudice  or  dignity  or  authority,  one  must 
somehow  or  other  get  into  communication 
with   other  people.      It  is   that   for  which 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      191 

we  live,  and  those  are  the  subtle  threads 
which  we  hold  in  our  hands  when  we 
have  passed  beyond  the  reach  of  wind  and 
sun. 


XX 

I  am  sure,  then,  that  one  cannot  and  may 
not,  however  quietly  and  inoffensively,  iso- 
late oneself  in  any  degree  from  mankind. 
That  was  the  mistake  I  made  in  some  of 
my  earlier  books,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it. 
Of  course  the  artist  must  in  a  sense  be 
isolated,  if  he  sets  his  work  high.  The 
writer  of  books  must  have  uninterrupted 
hours  to  read  and  write,  and  if  he  cares 
for  his  work,  he  must  put  the  best  of  him- 
self into  it.  He  is  bound  to  be  absorbed, 
and  when  his  absorption  is  over,  there  must 
follow  a  mood  of  some  dryness  and  ex- 
haustion. A  few  great  writers,  such  as 
Walter  Scott,  Thackeray,  and  Dickens,  con- 
trived by  superabundant  vitality  to  live  a 

full  social  life  as  well.     Thackeray  was  a 
192 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      193 

diner-out,  a  talker,  an  editor,  a  draughts- 
man, utterly  averse  to  seclusion.  So  eagerly 
did  lie  desire  the  sight  and  sound  and  scent 
of  life,  that  in  his  later  years  he  would 
not  even  write  in  his  study,  but  preferred 
his  club  or  even  the  smoking-room  of  a 
hotel.  Dickens  too  loved  a  sociable  life, 
the  acting  of  plays,  entertainments  of  all 
kinds.  Walter  Scott  wrote  his  great  books 
in  his  quiet  little  fortress  of  work,  in  the 
dawn,  when  his  guests  were  all  asleep. 
But  by  day  he  was  talking,  entertaining, 
building,  planting,  shooting,  hunting,  and 
living  the  life  of  an  active  country  gentle- 
man. But  then  novelists  cannot  of  course 
afford  to  cut  themselves  off  from  the  very 
material  out  of  which  they  weave  their 
dreams. 

Yet  it  is  still  more  notable  in  the  case 
of  some  of  the  most  individualistic  writers, 
to  see  how  ardently  and  desirously  they  fol- 


194       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

lowed  at  first  their  dreams  and  visions :  the 
glades  in  the  enchanted  woods  of  fantasy 
in  which  they  walked — glades  separated 
even  from  the  open  pastures  and  the  tilled 
fields  of  men,  by  acres  of  deep  woodland, 
leafy  passages,  close-grown  coverts,  and 
still  further  remote  from  the  city  into  all 
its  streaming  smoke — these  were  so  dear 
and  so  near  to  them,  that  their  hearts  could 
hold  nothing  beyond  the  sunshine  glitter- 
ing on  the  fern,  or  the  drip  of  the  rain 
upon  the  fallen  leaves,  or  the  bird's  song 
breaking  from  a  thicket.  But  one  comes 
to  the  end  of  that  wood  at  last,  the  wood 
where  it  is  always  morning,  with  the  wester- 
ing shadows  not  yet  fallen.  That  is  the 
crucial  time  for  the  poet.  Sometimes  he 
can  do  nothing  but  peep  backwards  among 
the  woodways,  and  mourn  the  loss  of  all 
that  had  been  so  sweet — but  sometimes,  and 
this  is  worthier,  his  heart  goes  flaming  out 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      195 

to  all  the  dwellers  upon  earth,  gay  and 
mournful,  wise  and  besotted  alike.  He  be- 
comes aware,  waking  from  his  dream,  of 
a  larger  and  more  living  secret,  which  he 
had  come  very  near  to  missing,  the  sense 
of  the  great  helpless  army  of  men,  walking 
idly  or  carefully  between  the  dawn  and  the 
dusk.  He  is  one  of  them,  after  all,  though 
he  has  lingered  apart  from  them.  And  this 
awakening  is  the  moment  when  the  man's 
greatness  or  weakness  is  known  and  de- 
cided, when  his  life  turns  swiftly  upon  its 
hinge. 

I  think  it  is  true  that  all  the  great  poets 
have  had  to  face  this  awakening  indeed, 
and  all  those  other  writers,  who  are  poets 
in  heart  and  work,  although  they  have 
written  no  verses,  or  written  them  abun- 
dantly ill.  With  some  it  has  smitten  down 
their  contentment  and  delight  in  tricks  of 
musical  words  and  melodious  phrases;  but 


196       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

with  the  greatest  it  lias  wrought  out  a 
deeper  and  truer  music,  till  their  voice 
falls  on  the  air  like  the  bell  that  sounds 
at  evensong  across  the  house-roofs. 

I  can  but  say  of  myself  that,  on  awaken- 
ing out  of  my  pain,  I  did  become,  however 
timidly  and  doubtfully,  aware  of  this  larger 
range  of  hopes  and  emotions.  I  had  lived 
for  twenty  years  of  my  life  among  boys 
and  with  my  fellow-craftsmen.  But  in  the 
lives  and  hearts  of  boys,  though  there  is 
a  great  beauty  of  freshness  and  impulse, 
one  does  not  become  aware  of  humanity  in 
its  wholeness.  They  have  seen  but  one  side 
of  the  picture ;  and  even  in  their  faults  and 
sins  they  hardly  touch  the  shadow  at  all. 
The  fault  can  be  cured,  the  sin  put  away; 
they  have  not  yet  passed  into  the  twilight, 
when  the  fruits  of  knowledge  have  all  been 
gathered  from  the  bough,  and  there  is  little 
left  but  the  wish  that  it  could  all  be  done 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      197 

over  again,  and  when  the  reckoning  lias  still 
to  be  paid.  Besides,  in  the  life  of  a  school- 
master, there  is  the  swift  passage  of  the 
generations.  Just  when  the  spirit  begins 
to  open  to  the  light,  the  rank  moves  on, 
and  the  new  rank  takes  its  place. 

When  I  left  all  that  busy  cheerful  life 
behind  me,  there  came  in  sight  a  whole  host 
of  suspended  hopes  and  wishes,  the  hope 
of  living  life  on  one's  own  dear  lines, 
the  wish  to  take  stock  of  garnered  impres- 
sions, the  desire  to  fill  one's  heart  to  the 
brim  with  all  the  quiet  brooding  thoughts 
and  sights  of  life,  which  one  had  just 
grasped  at  before  in  flying  moments,  as  the 
town-bred  child,  in  his  hour  of  holiday,  fills 
his  hands  with  leaves  and  flowers  and 
berries. 

There  was  the  blunder!  That  I  was  so 
determined  to  live  life  on  my  own  condi- 
tions, to  make  my  own  selection,  to  exclude 


198       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

deliberately  all  the  harsh  and  dreary  ele- 
ments; and  it  seemed  so  peaceable,  so 
harmless,  so  successful! 

And  then  out  of  the  open  sky  there  drove 
this  sudden  cloud  that  wrapped  the  land- 
scape in  shower,  and  made  me  conscious 
of  nothing  but  a  little  space  of  weary  hill- 
side lashed  with  wind  and  moving  stripes 
of  rain.  Yet  I  knew  that  all  the  beauty 
and  sweetness  of  earth  were  there  behind 
the  storm,  in  the  storm,  though  I  could  not 
see  it  or  lay  hold  of  it.  The  only  beautiful 
thing  left  was  the  thing  that  I  had  before 
slighted.  Companionship  and  friendship 
had  been  before  but  an  easy  sharing  of  joy- 
ful or  curious  experiences,  like  the  talk  of 
friends  that  walk  together  on  the  hills  in 
a  sunny  morning.  But  now  I  was  envel- 
oped, as  by  some  careful  conspiracy  of  love, 
with  an  inexpressible  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion;   a    tenderness    that   only    desired    to 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      199 

give,  to  shield,  to  help,  when  I  had  nothing 
to  give  in  return  but  a  helpless  courtesy  and 
a  dumb  gratitude. 

And  then,  indeed,  my  eyes  were  opened, 
and  I  saw  that  there  was  a  quality  of  love 
in  the  world,  infinitely  strong  and  patient, 
far  deeper  and  mightier  than  the  delight 
which  had  been  the  basis  of  my  passion- 
less alliances  and  comradeships.  If  I  could 
but  say  or  express  the  wonder  of  it!  But 
it  is  a  thing  that  can  only  be  felt,  and 
cannot  rise  to  the  surface  in  imagined 
words. 

And  so  I  came  suddenly  in  sight  of  the 
great  fellowship  of  man,  which  I  had  never 
discerned  before  in  my  foolish  blindness. 
There  it  was,  that  great  tide  of  love  and 
care,  moving  silently  about  the  rocky  islets 
of  life,  obeying  some  vast  and  far-off  im- 
pulse, yet  all  swTaying  in  a  secret  unison 
of  emotion.     How  had  I  overlooked  it?     I 


200      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

saw  now  that  many  things  which  had 
seemed  to  me  trivial  and  even  grotesque 
phenomena,  the  partisanship  of  men  venting 
itself  in  conventional  phrases  and  uncouth 
formulae,  the  absurd  babble  of  meetings 
and  gatherings,  the  mutual  admiration  of 
dumb  and  tiresome  people,  things  which 
I  had  judged  hardly  and  intellectually,  were 
the  signs  and  symbols  of  a  great  solid  force, 
infinitely  strong  and  real,  with  a  reality 
which  transcended  all  artistic  and  percep- 
tive qualities  and  delights,  values  and 
hues,  and  colours  and  proportions,  all  the 
soulless  or  semi-soulless  things,  which  are 
yet,  I  believe,  the  signs  of  some  hitherward 
intention  from  afar,  but  when  compared 
with  the  voice  and  accent  of  life,  are  but 
as  the  writing  on  the  wall  compared  to  its 
interpretation. 

One  can  see  all  this  at  a  glance,  realise 
it,  believe  it,  know  it  to  be  there,  but  yet 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      201 

be  very  far  away  from  making  it  one's 
own.  That  must  come  gradually  and  de- 
liberately; but  I  saw,  to  use  a  homely 
enough  simile,  that  I  had  been  before  but 
as  the  spider  in  the  belfry,  who  is  dis- 
turbed at  intervals  in  his  dusty  web  by  the 
humming  of  the  great  bell,  without  ever 
guessing  that  the  bell  can  have  some  further 
purpose  than  the  mere  flooding  of  the  sun- 
streaked  air  of  the  stone-walled  dim-beamed 
louvre  with  passing  sound— never  dreamed 
of  it  as  the  punctual  voice  of  time  heard 
in  the  city,  and  far  beyond  in  the  elm-girt 
homesteads,  by  which  men  divide  the  day 
and  the  night,  and  set  a  limit  to  their  cares 
and  their  rest  alike. 


XXI 

Time  and  Space,  those  are  the  eterral  diffi- 
culties. How  is  one  to  carry  out  that  free 
contact  with  other  spirits,  in  a  scene  where 
one  must  work  to  live,  full  of  business  and 
drudgery,  with  solitary  toil  to  be  done, 
debris  and  dust  to  be  swept  up,  and  where, 
even  so,  the  poor  body  is  so  much  at  the 
mercy  of  material  needs,  such  as  food  and 
sleep?  One  must  not  underrate  work;  it 
seems  a  condition  of  healthy  life  for  most 
of  us.  Yet  the  greatest  men  of  all  have 
seemed  to  solve  the  question  by  not  work- 
ing at  all!  If  the  daily  toil  were  so  im- 
portant, Christ  Himself  would  surely  have 
set  an  example  of  work,  or  have  praised 
the  sanctity  of  work;  yet  there  is  no  evi- 
dence of  His  having  toiled  at  all  for  a  liveli- 

202 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      203 

hood,  and  all  His  teaching  is  against  work, 
or  at  least  the  overshadowing  cares  of 
work.  Anxiety  for  bodily  needs — food  and 
raiment  and  shelter — how  light  He  made 
of  them !  The  lilies  in  His  parable  neither 
toiled  nor  spun,  Martha  was  rebuked  for 
housewifely  care.  It  was  a  gospel  of  sim- 
plicity, of  peace,  of  love,  never  a  gospel  of 
work.  Then  look  at  Socrates,  who  deliber- 
ately spent  his  time  in  talk;  St.  Francis, 
who  dared  waste  no  time  in  thoughts  of 
sustenance,  but  begged  his  bread  from  door 
to  door.  Life  was  not  for  these  a  place  to 
drudge  in,  or  to  keep  house  in,  still  less 
a  place  to  make  a  fortune.  That  was  all 
a  waste  of  time!  The  end  of  life  was  to 
mix  with  their  kind,  to  ask  questions,  to 
tell  stories,  to  talk,  to  utter  their  hopes  in 
prayer.  By  which  behaviour  they  indi- 
cated, as  by  an  object-lesson,  that  to  most 
of  us  the  everlasting  care  for  comfort  and 


204      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

food  and  fine  houses  and  investments  is  a 
veil  which  hangs,  lightly  or  heavily,  between 
us  and  the  truth.  Those  are  the  transitory 
things,  but  affections  and  friendships  and 
mutual  understandings  and  sympathies  are 
the  eternal  things. 

There  is  no  great  fear  that  men  will  too 
eagerly  embrace  that  theory  of  life;  indeed 
the  hope  may  rather  be  that,  as  wealth  gets 
slowly  equalised,  life  will  become  simpler, 
and  that  we  may  return  at  last,  every  one 
of  us,  to  enjoying  the  homely  tasks  of  house- 
hold life,  which  are  no  interruption  to 
thought,  but  just  a  pleasant  exercise  for 
hand  and  eye  and  foot.  If  life  were  uni- 
versally simple,  there  might  be  leisure  for 
all  men ;  and  yet  the  strange  thing  is  to  see 
so  many  people  obeying  the  instinct  to 
accumulate,  which  is  but  the  instinct  to 
attain  to  leisure,  and  then  when  they  have 
attained  the  possibility  of  it,  to  be  unable 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      205 

to  drop  the  work  which  has  become  mean- 
ingless and  mechanical. 

But  if  we  grant  the  necessity  of  toil  for 
most  of  us,  we  are  still  all  day  long,  in 
our  toil  as  well  as  in  our  leisure,  brought 
into  touch  with  all  kinds  of  spirits,  young 
and  old,  with  whom  we  may  be  in  some 
relation,  if  we  will.  But  what  is  it  that 
separates  us?  Oftenest  of  all  a  kind  of 
caution,  a  suspicion  of  others'  motives,  a 
terror  of  being  taken  advantage  of,  or  de- 
rided, or  despised.  Then  there  are  dif- 
ferences of  class  and  tradition,  differences 
of  aim  and  ideal,  differences  of  taste,  the 
strange  instinctive  dislikes  wre  have  of  each 
other.  But  the  real  obstacle  is  a  selfish- 
ness, which  makes  us  hold  others  hostile 
because  we  are  afraid  that  our  arrange- 
ments, our  hopes,  our  accumulations,  may 
be  interfered  with.  We  want  to  be  real- 
ised, to  be  respected,  to  be  feared,  not  that 


206      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

we  may  do  anything  with  our  power  when 
we  have  got  it,  but  that  we  may  feel  secure, 
complacent,  and  superior;  and  so  we  begin 
to  mistrust  and  avoid  each  other;  we  gild 
our  hatreds  by  the  names  of  ambition,  of 
honour,  of  courage,  of  patriotism;  but  it 
all  means  the  same  thing  in  the  end,  to 
secure  a  den  where  we  may  be  alone  and 
furious,  lie  growling  over  our  prey,  wallow 
in  our  gains.  But  sometimes  the  soul  con- 
trives to  put  all  that  aside,  and  to  make 
known  the  peaceful  affection  which  it  feels. 
In  love,  in  friendship,  in  association,  men 
begin  to  perceive  that  their  interests  are 
not  all  individualistic,  but  really  common; 
that  they  can  gain  what  they  desire,  a  se- 
curity and  an  ease  of  life,  by  claiming  less 
and  sacrificing  more.  The  larger  that  a 
man's  heart  is,  the  less  is  it  set  wholly  on 
his  own  advantage,  and  more  on  the  de- 
liberate sharing  of  his  own  happiness.    Who 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      207 

does  not  know  the  purest  of  all  pleasures, 
the  making  of  some  definite  sacrifice  for 
the  sake  of  one  whom  one  loves? 

But  a  man  may  say,  "  Yes,  I  see  all  that 
as  a  remote  dream,  beautiful  enough,  but 
impracticable!  How  am  I  to  begin?  I 
find  myself  in  a  narrow  place,  with  many 
people  about  me  whose  interests  conflict 
with  mine,  people  who  do  not  all  like  my 
way  of  life  or  my  speech,  who  have  no  wish 
to  come  to  terms  with  me.  What  practical 
step  can  I  take  in  the  direction  of  peace 
and  affection?  " 

The  answer  is  that  we  must  discern  and 
cast  out  of  our  minds  the  thoughts  within 
us  that  vex  and  Irritate  others.  We  must 
not  judge  sharply,  we  must  not  censure,  we 
must  not  clutch  at  good  things,  we  must 
not  suspect  or  strive.  We  must  approach 
others  as  frankly  and  as  gently  as  we  can. 
Half  the  difficulty  comes  from  our  making 


208       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

up  our  minds  beforehand  about  people, 
taking  for  granted  they  will  be  contemp- 
tuous or  hostile,  anticipating  disagreement. 
I  recall  the  terrors  I  used  to  suffer  as  a 
young  man  at  finding  myself  in  an  un- 
familiar circle,  especially  if  the  pursuits  of 
that  circle  were  different  from  my  own. 
There  was  the  desire  to  conceal  one's  ignor- 
ance and  unaptness,  the  wish  to  persuade 
the  group  of  one's  effectiveness ;  and  yet  on 
a  brief  acquaintance  how  simple  and  good- 
natured  the  ogres  often  turned  out  to  be ! 

In  a  life  like  my  own  there  is  really  no 
obstacle  at  all.  In  a  place  like  a  College 
there  are  many  more  people  than  time  per- 
mits one  to  know,  and  most  of  them  ready 
to  respond  to  friendly  overtures;  and,  as  a 
writer,  I  have  found  it  easy  to  say  exactly 
what  I  think  and  feel,  out  of  the  heart.  I 
have  made  many  unknown  friends  through 
my  books,  by  the  medium  of  letters  giving 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      209 

me  a  friendly  signal.  There  are,  of  course, 
plenty  of  people  who  do  not  like  my  books, 
think  them  sentimental,  twaddling,  wanting 
in  dignity.  I  do  not  pretend  to  like  the 
evidences  of  disfavour  and  contempt,  be- 
cause those  are  just  the  things  I  would 
avoid.  But  I  mean  to  go  my  own  way, 
nevertheless,  not  for  the  sake  of  fame  or 
even  money,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  love, 
of  which  Shelley  said  that  fame  was  but  the 
disguise. 

But  if  a  peevish  person  asks  me  what  is 
the  point  of  seeking  love,  if  he  says  that  he 
does  not  value  it  or  want  it,  that  he  desires 
to  pass  his  life  undisturbed  and  doing  the 
things  which  please  him,  then  I  have  no 
answer  but  to  say  that  I  believe  that  some- 
where and  some  day  he  will  too  be  drawn 
into  the  tide.  One  cannot  resist  the  strong- 
est thing  in  the  world.     I  believe  that  the 

man  who  wishes  to  isolate  himself  from  his 
14 


210      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

kind  is  like  the  knight  of  old  following  a 
wandering  fire.  Because  I  believe  that  we 
are  all  one,  in  reality;  I  do  not  mean  that 
as  a  metaphor,  but  a  statement  of  fact. 
The  old  preacher  was  derided  for  his  ser- 
mon on  unity,  when  he  pointed  to  nature 
as  a  proof  of  his  thesis,  and  said  that  there 
was  one  sun,  and  one  moon,  and  one  mul- 
titude of  stars.  The  stars  have  their  orbits 
and  paths,  their  distinctness  of  light  and 
distance,  just  as  we  have  our  separate  bodies 
and  ways  of  life;  but  they  are  but  a  float- 
ing shower  of  matter,  and  have  a  unity  as 
of  the  sea.  I  believe  that  our  spirits  too 
have  a  unity  like  that,  and  are  nearer  to 
each  other  than  comrades  or  brothers;  and 
our  task  is  to  recognise  that  nearness  and 
to  draw  as  close  as  we  can. 

And  so  I  would  draw  as  near  as  I  may 
to  every  human  soul,  near  enough  to  signal, 
"  Yes,  that  is  you !  you  are  there !  "  near 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      211 

enough  to  recognise  that  we  have  all  the 
same  share  and  taste  of  life,  the  same  joy 
in  light,  and  health,  and  work,  the  same 
hopes  and  fears,  the  same  greatness  of 
awakening.  I  would  like  the  barrier  be- 
tween my  own  spirit  and  the  spirits  of 
others  to  be  utterly  done  away,  and  I  would 
think  of  all  humanity  just  as  I  think  of 
my  absent  friend,  whose  smile,  and  speech, 
and  movement  come  before  me  as  I  write, 
and  whom  I  daily  wish  that  I  could 
see  and  hear.  Of  course  there  must  be  dif- 
ferences of  regard;  if  the  mind  and  heart, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  body,  dwell  in  the 
same  region,  love  the  same  exercises,  the 
same  sights,  the  same  sounds,  it  is  easy 
enough.  But  one  can  establish  a  tie  with 
most  men  and  women  whom  one  meets ;  and 
what  one  must  not  do  is  to  shrink  back 
into  oneself  and  say,  "  Here  is  this  person 
whom  I  shall  probably  never  meet  again; 


212       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

we  have  nothing  in  common;  why  should 
I  trouble  to  like  him  or  to  make  him  like 
me?  "  That  is  a  sort  of  indolence  that  must 
be  overcome;  we  must  no  more  practise  it 
than  we  must  practise  to  spend  the  day  in 
sleep,  drowsing  away  the  hours.  The  spring 
of  life,  which  underlies  all  politics,  all  social 
combinations,  all  problems  of  work  and  gov- 
ernment, is  this  endless  desire  of  men  not 
to  be  apart,  but  to  come  to  terms  with 
one  another.  The  reason  why  we  are  im- 
prisoned among  contrary  forces  and  clash- 
ing interests  is  that  we  may  learn  our  way 
out  of  them.  They  have  no  sort  of  im- 
portance, except  in  so  far  as  they  help  or 
hinder  the  deliverance  of  the  soul  from 
sundering  barriers,  and  lead  at  last  to 
mutual  confidence. 

I  think  that  the  reason  why  I  feel  this 
all  so  urgently  now  is  that  in  becoming 
aware  of  the  vitality   and  permanence  of 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      213 

my  own  soul,  I  have  become  aware  of  the 
vitality  and  permanence  of  all  souls;  and 
thus  I  do  earnestly  desire  to  turn  my  back 
upon  the  life  of  views,  and  sunsets,  and 
solitary  dreams.  I  have  no  sort  of  idea  of 
doing  other  people  good.  I  wholly  mis- 
doubt my  power  to  do  that.  I  have  no 
consciousness  of  stores  of  strength,  or 
virtue,  or  happiness,  of  which  I  have  the 
distribution.  I  am  quite  unable  to  recom- 
mend my  own  example;  it  is  not  one  to 
be  followed.  But  I  desire  to  know  others, 
to  realise  their  ideas,  to  evoke  their  sym- 
pathies, to  understand  them.  It  is  there  I 
believe  that  the  whole  worth  and  virtue  of 
life  lies.  Because  our  own  ideals  and  aims, 
which  have  perhaps  some  beauty  in  them, 
are  all  stained  by  temperament  and  pre- 
judice. Yet  I  believe  that  the  inmost 
mind  of  humanity  is  set  on  what  is  pure, 
and  kind,  and  true,  and  beautiful,  and   I 


2i4       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

would  have  my  own  weak  purposes  strength- 
ened and  corrected  by  the  touch  of  other 
minds  and  hearts. 

One  need  not  foolishly  idealise,  or  even 
more  foolishly  idolise,  though  it  is  hard  not 
to  do  that  when  one  comes  in  contact  with 
frank  and  generous  persons,  and  sees  the 
very  thing  done  so  finely  which  one  has 
so  elaborately  missed. 

And  there  are  times,  too,  in  the  face  of 
something  solemn  and  tragic,  when  one  does 
come  wonderfully  and  suddenly  near  to  a 
human  spirit.  I  passed  to-day  through  a 
little  village,  and  saw  in  the  churchyard 
a  crowd  of  people  standing  and  looking 
into  a  newly-dug  grave;  on  the  wall 
was  leaning  an  old  and  dreary  man,  lame 
and  disabled,  not  a  heroic  old  man  at  all, 
but  a  tippler,  I  should  think,  from  his  face 
and  aspect.  I  stopped  for  a  moment  and 
asked  him  whose  funeral  it  was.     He  had 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      215 

been  comforting  himself,  I  suppose,  in  his 
own  way,  but  he  had  thus  let  loose  that 
touch  of  poetry  which  lies  within  so  many 
spirits,  or  pierced  the  veil  of  bashfulness 
which  involves  so  many  of  us  Englishmen. 
He  told  me  in  a  few  words  that  it  was  the 
grave  of  an  elderly  labourer,  who  had  died 
quite  suddenly  three  days  before.  Then  he 
said  to  me,  "  He  was  a  friend  of  mine,  he 
was !  He  was  a  suffering  man,  and  a  good 
quiet  man.  I  was  talking  to  him  here  on 
the  day  before  he  died,  and  he  was  saying 
how  full  the  churchyard  was  of  graves. 
He  did  n't  think  he  was  to  go  so  soon,  and 
that  in  four  days  I  should  be  seeing  him 
laid  away  here.  I  shan't  be  long  after  him, 
I  know ;  but  it  seems  sad  to  die,  somehow !  " 
Two  tears  globed  themselves  in  his  dim 
old  eyes  and  fell  down  his  cheeks.  He  gave 
me  a  look,  and  I  knew  that  I  understood 
him  and  he  me,  and  that  we  both  felt  the 


216       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

terror   of   the   dark    and    the   love   of   all 
familiar  things. 

I  am  afraid  I  should  not  have  liked  the 
old  man  as  a  companion;  but  I  realised, 
through  it  all,  that  we  were  somehow  com- 
panions, in  spite  of  our  differences  and  be- 
hind them.  And  I  felt  too  that  that  moment 
was  worth  more  to  both  of  us  even  than  a 
day  of  what  I  call  important  work ;  and  in- 
deed that  what  we  have  to  do  is  to  disentan- 
gle ourselves  somehow  from  our  solid  ways 
and  dignified  prepossessions ;  to  realise  that 
comforts  and  pleasures  and  events  pass  and 
are  as  nothing,  as  the  frosty  breath  that 
fades  upon  the  air;  but  that  what  matters, 
what  affects  us,  what  remains  is  the  fact 
that  we  can  become  aware  of  other  spirits, 
hampered,  it  may  be,  and  burdened  and  con- 
fined, to  whom  we  are  both  near  and  dear,  if 
indeed  we  are  not  closer  and  more  united 
than  any  human  word  or  thought  can  define. 


XXII 

And  so  I  saw  that  not  only  must  one  keep 
one's  hand  linked  with  the  warm  arm  of 
life,  but  that  one  must  have  work,  not  only 
work  of  one's  own  choosing,  but  uninterest- 
ing, hard,  tiresome  work — work,  shall  I  say, 
which  one  would  always  rather  not  begin, 
and  of  which  the  chief  pleasure  was  to 
finish  it,  with  perhaps  the  added  grace  of 
finishing  it  well.  There  was  another  mis- 
take— how  my  mistakes  rose  up  round  me 
one  by  one,  finger  on  lip,  and  smiled  at 
me!  It  will  not  do  to  work  only  at  things 
which  delight  and  excite  one;  they  lose  their 
savour,  as  though  one  for  ever  fed  oneself 
on  delicacies.  There  must  be  porridge  days 
and  mutton  days,  as  William  Morris  said 

in  his  blunt  way — not  a  perpetual  feast 
217 


218       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

One  can't  avoid  one's  inherited  tendencies. 
My  ancestors  were  for  a  long  time  yeomen 
and  tillers  of  the  soil,  then  merchants  and 
tradesmen,  then  teachers  and  writers.  None 
of  my  family  have  ever  been  absolved  from 
the  necessity  of  earning  a  living.  I  am 
bourgeois  to  the  marrow  of  my  bones,  and 
have  no  faculty  for  high-handed  leisure. 

If  one  works  solely  at  what  is  a  pleasure, 
minute  by  minute,  one  exhausts  the  faculty 
of  pleasure;  but  if  one  cannot  do  as  one 
would,  cannot  go  off  on  a  spring  morning 
among  the  green-specked  copses,  or  on  a 
day  of  golden  and  frosty  haze  among  red 
autumn  woodlands,  how  much  sharper  and 
keener  is  the  pleasure  when  it  comes  at 
last!  It  is  not  a  case,  this,  of  the  duty 
of  work.  I  believe  in  the  duty  of  industry 
with  all  my  heart  for  all;  but  the  power 
to  select  all  one's  work,  to  reject  all 
drudgery,  all  tiresome  detail,  is  a  hedonism 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      219 

which  is  against  wholesome  life.  The  dry 
business — I  need  not  specify  it — which  one 
must  face  and  swallow,  is  a  tonic  which  we 
all  need,  and  most  of  all  the  artist.  Some 
artists  get  it  in  the  course  of  their  work — 
the  setting  out  of  the  palette,  the  manipula- 
tion of  pigments,  the  moulding  of  clay,  the 
chipping  of  stone,  the  mathematical  task  of 
orchestration — all  these  and  many  other 
things  give  certain  artists  the  mechanical 
relief  they  need;  but  the  reflective  writer 
has  no  such  concrete  accessories;  the  grain 
of  thought  and  impression  is  ground  into 
flour,  dribbles  from  the  hopper  into  the 
sack,  and  all  the  mechanical  work  is  done 
inside  the  gear  of  the  brain.  The  more  ex- 
ultant and  delicious  the  work  is  the  more 
dangerous  it  is.  Is  there,  I  wonder,  any 
delight  like  that  of  feeling  the  sentence  take 
shape  and  run  from  the  furnace  into  the 
mould? 


220      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

But  we  need  discipline!  and  miserable  as 
it  is  at  the  time  to  try  to  get  some  deli- 
cate thought  into  shape  among  petty  inter- 
ruptions and  meaningless  courtesies,  the 
tense  wires  do  thus  lose  their  perilous 
crystallisation. 

I  do  not  want  at  once  to  diminish  or  ever 
to  sweep  away  the  drudgery  of  the  world.  I 
only  want  to  diminish  the  wasteful  drudgery 
spent  on  such  things  as  armaments  to  scare 
the  nations  from  flying  at  each  other's 
throats.  I  want  to  diminish  the  labour 
poured  out  on  ministering  to  the  whims 
and  caprices  of  the  wealthy.  I  want  the 
drudges  of  the  world  to  have  time  to  cul- 
tivate a  taste  for  simple  and  beautiful 
things.  It  is  not  that  the  materials  or  the 
opportunities  of  wholesome  pleasure  are 
wanting  in  the  workaday  world.  Printing, 
picture-reproduction,  railways  have  brought 
the  pleasure  of  beautiful   and  interesting 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      221 

thoughts,  the  joys  of  art,  the  sight  of  the 
green  places  of  the  earth  and  of  the  break- 
ing sea  within  reach  of  almost  all — if  that 
was  what  they  wanted!  There  is  enough 
provender  to  feed  the  imagination  of  all, 
if  there  were  imagination  to  feed.  The 
problem  is  not  how  to  give  mankind  the 
things  for  which  they  do  not  care,  but  to 
make  them  care  for  the  things  they  have. 
That  seems  to  me  the  one  sad  lack  of  our 
well-equipped  and  efficient  schools,  that  they 
do  not  touch  the  imagination  or  the  heart. 
The  cure  of  our  evils  lies  in  the  imagination 
and  the  heart. 

Instead  of  teaching  those  whose  lot  is 
labour,  to  enjoy  labour,  and  to  enrich 
leisure,  they  are  taught  to  envy  seden- 
tary labour,  and  to  need  melodramatic 
excitement. 

But  I  wander  from  my  point,  which  is 
that  the  world  is  rich  in  pleasure,  if  one 


222       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

could  but  first  set  the  minds  of  men  upon 
the  delight  of  work,  and  also  turn  their 
minds  upon  the  natural  delights  of  life 
instead  of  the  artificial  amusements. 

And  here,  I  think,  comes  in  what  is  the 
worst  of  all  our  mistakes,  that  we  set  our- 
selves to  encourage  in  every  form  the  in- 
stinct of  competition  and  rivalry.  We  do 
not  reward  the  patient,  and  the  kindly,  and 
the  good-humoured;  we  reward  the  strong, 
and  the  dexterous,  and  the  self-sufficient, 
and  the  insolent.  We  get  into  the  heads 
of  our  children  the  idea  that  they  must  beat 
others  and  secure  all  the  advantages  they 
can.  That  seems  to  me  the  poisonous 
flavour  of  my  own  school-days — the  marks, 
the  distinctions,  the  athletic  prizes.  Every- 
thing done  for  those  who  could  seize  and 
hold  and  perform,  nothing  for  the  unselfish 
and  slow  and  clumsy,  except  discredit  and 
contempt  and  the  sympathy  full  of  humiliat- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      223 

ing  pity.  The  children  who  ought  to  be 
rewarded  are  those  who,  with  no  hope  of 
success,  turn  out  patient  and  honest  work, 
love  duty,  and  practise  brotherliness.  Yet 
these  are  pitied  for  stupidity  and  sheepish- 
ness,  and  the  crown  falls  upon  dash,  and 
aplomb,  and  quickness.  The  end  should  be 
the  love  of  work,  and  the  content  of  leisure, 
and  the  peace  of  home. 

Well,  I  think  that  if  such  ideals  had 
been  held  up  before  me,  I  could  have  been 
trained  in  them  and  come  to  love  them. 
But  I  was  encouraged  to  attempt  to  dazzle, 
and  surprise,  and  please,  and  win  if  I 
could  the  prize  which  another  desired.  I 
was  saved,  I  think,  as  a  boy  and  as  a  young 
man  from  the  full  disaster  of  the  system 
by  being  indolent,  timid,  and  peace-loving; 
but  I  learned  to  dislike  my  work  and  to 
waste  my  leisure.  Then  through  my  active 
professional  life,  the  interest  of  the  boys 


224      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

about  me,  the  vanity  of  successful  work, 
the  pleasure  of  being  praised  and  perhaps 
needed,  kept  my  labour  from  failure;  but 
new  interests,  or  old  ones  long  suppressed, 
rose  rebelliously,  till  at  last  I  cut  myself 
adrift  and  plunged  as  I  have  said  into  the 
congenial  delight  of  literature. 

I  do  not  regret  it — only  thus,  by  candid 
experiment,  can  one  learn  one's  lesson.  But 
I  now  know  that  one  cannot  do  without 
drudgery,  without  work  which  holds  one 
back  from  self-pleasing  and  intemperate 
pursuit  of  joy.  The  divine  task  is,  if  pos- 
sible, to  turn  the  waters  of  life  into  the 
wine  of  life,  as  at  the  marriage  feast  so  long 
ago.  The  walls  of  the  house  of  life  must 
be  firmly  and  severely  built,  however  much 
one  may  adorn  them  with  pictured  ideals 
and  tapestries  that  refresh  the  eye  with 
their  woven  colours,  their  still  forms. 


XXIII 

When  I  say  that  one  must  not  lose  sight 
of  or  touch  with  humanity,  I  am  not  speak- 
ing of  mere  seclusion  of  scene  or  domicile. 
There  are  people  who,  wherever  they  lived, 
would  hardly  be  secluded;  they  would  seek 
ties  of  some  sort  and  ensue  them.  Such 
are  the  people  who  without  any  kind  of 
strain,  or  inquisitiveness,  or  purpose,  but 
by  some  beautiful  natural  instinct,  meet  all 
alike  on  some  easy  common  ground,  even 
if  it  be  a  smiling  silence,  for  whom  it  is 
enough  that  others  should  be  there.  But 
I  have  no  such  gift.  Yet  I  am  possessed 
with  the  no  less  instinctive  desire  to  find 
out  all  about  the  people  with  whom  I  am 
brought    into    juxtaposition,    to    commune 

with    their   hearts    and    search    out    their 
is  225 


226       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

spirits.     I  want  to  know  their  tastes,  their 
ambitions,   their  circumstances,  their  pur- 
poses, their  prejudices,  their  reasons,  and 
their  dreams.     I  desire  to  compare  my  own 
experiences  and  aims  with  theirs,  to  estab- 
lish   connecting    doors    in    our    respective 
minds,  to  be  free  of  their  house  of  work, 
their    garden    of    reveries.      And    thus    a 
stolid,  or  a  secret,  or  a  conventional  per- 
son, armoured  and  vizored,  is  an  exhaust- 
ing business,  because  I  want  them  to  betray 
their   preferences   and   to    give    themselves 
away.     And  to  people  of  this  observant  and 
explorative    type,    though    this    process    is 
easy  and  pleasant  enough   in   high  health 
and  spirits,  it  is  apt  to  become  rather  a 
torture  if  one  is  tired,  or  preoccupied,  or 
languid.     The  thing  has  to  go  on  just  the 
same,   mechanically   and  drearily,   without 
zest   or  animation,  just   as   the   exhausted 
musician  fingers  endless  passages,  and  the 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff       227 

wearied  card-player  plays  endless  imagin- 
ary games.  And  then  again  one  can  be 
secluded  without  being  apparently  un- 
sociable, if  one  retires  within  a  bodyguard 
of  chosen  friends,  and  affects  no  society 
except  what  is  absolutely  habitual  and 
familiar.  Every  one  has  the  right  to  have 
an  inner  intimate  circle,  and  indeed  a  life 
without  it  is  a  very  mechanical  thing.  But 
the  touch  with  life  which  one  must  not  lose 
is  the  touch  which  comes  of  definite  work, 
when  one  has  to  form  relations  with  people 
whether  one  likes  them  or  not,  to  do  busi- 
ness with  them,  to  adjust  oneself  to  their 
prejudices,  to  take  into  account  the  fact 
that  they  view  things  differently,  and  very 
possibly  consider  one's  own  view  to  be  per- 
verse or  incomplete.  That  is  what  makes 
for  elasticity  of  mind,  when  one  knows  that 
a  colleague,  let  us  say,  thinks  one's  views 
fantastic  or  absurd,  and  one  has  to  try  to 


228      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

convince  him  not  only  that  one  has  a  right 
to  one's  view,  but  that  there  is  something 
in  it  which  he  is  inclined  to  miss  or  to 
despise  unduly.  To  have  to  make  the  best 
of  a  situation,  to  manage  people,  to  com- 
promise, even  to  give  way  when  uncon- 
vinced, to  get  hard  knocks  from  other  men's 
prejudices,  to  realise  with  painful  surprise 
that  one  is  thought  wilful,  or  meddling,  or 
inadequate;  to  realise  that  one's  own  be- 
loved views  carry  no  weight  at  all,  or  are 
viewed  with  suspicion  or  dislike.  To  make 
mistakes,  to  burn  one's  fingers,  to  lose  a 
chance  by  being  insistent,  to  give  offence 
unintentionally,  to  learn  that  one  cannot 
have  one's  own  way  however  reasonable  and 
fruitful  it  appears, — all  this  is  wholesome 
and  useful,  and  it  cannot  be  attained  with- 
out having  definite  work  to  do  in  the  com- 
pany of  others.  It  is  no  good  to  screw  up 
one's  ideals  too  high  in  this  respect,  or  to 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      229 

approach  life  with  an  urgent  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility and  with  a  great  programme 
about  helping  others.  One  has  to  make 
them  desire  to  be  helped  in  the  first  place, 
and  in  the  second  place  to  desire  that  one 
should  be  the  person  to  whom  they  can 
confidently  and  hopefully  appeal.  If  there 
is  one  attitude  that  I  mistrust  it  is  the 
attitude  of  those  who  intend  to  exercise 
influence.  It  merely  means,  as  a  rule,  a 
temperament  both  self-righteous  and  un- 
sympathetic. One  cannot  approach  life  on 
these  terms.  One  must  be  thankful  to  be 
allowed  to  play  a  part  at  all.  Simply  to 
love  people  as  they  are  and  for  what  they 
are,  or  if  one  cannot  like  them,  to  be  in- 
terested in  them,  and  if  possible  amused 
by  them — that  is  a  far  more  wholesome 
attitude.  One  cannot  present  oneself  with 
a  captain's  commission  in  the  army  of  life, 
and  nowadays  one  cannot  even  purchase  it ! 


23o      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

Promotion  must  come  by  merit,  and  few 
people  who  deserve  it  fail  to  receive  it. 

In  England,  of  course,  the  temptation  to 
make  or  obtain   a  position  is  very  great. 
We  are  a  deferential  nation  and  believe  in 
subordination.     We  have  a  wide  and  ela- 
borate system  of  labelling  people,  and  it  is 
very  convenient  to  have  a  full  label.      If 
one  has  ideas  to  ventilate  or  suggestions  as 
to  the  conduct  of  life  to  offer,  the  tempta- 
tion to  get  a  clear  label  is  very  great,  be- 
cause people  in  England  will   listen  to   a 
man  that  is  thus  labelled,  and  respect  his 
ideas,  when  they  will  not  attend  to  a  free 
lance  or  respect  him.     It  is  not  very  easy 
to  say  what  one  thinks  in  England.     It  is 
very  easy  to   find   out   what  other  people 
think  and  to  say  that,  and  the  power  of 
agreeing    emphatically    with    popular    and 
commonplace   ideals    is   perhaps   the   most 
useful   power,   from   the  point  of  view   of 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      231 

advancement,  that  a  man  can  develop.  The 
English  system  cuts  both  ways;  the  pos- 
session of  an  office  or  a  post  often  improves 
men  of  unobtrusive,  commonplace,  sensible 
minds,  because  it  gives  them  confidence  and 
decision,  and  teaches  them  to  act  justly  and 
kindly.  But  I  have  known  far  more  people 
whose  minds  have  been  stifled  and  cramped 
by  position  and  office,  men  of  real  force 
and  original  qualities,  because  it  is  so 
fatally  easy  to  fall  in  with  conventional 
standards,  and  to  earn  comfort  and  respect 
thereby. 

And  thus  the  man  who  has  opinions  and 
ideas  is  very  often  in  a  difficulty.  He  needs 
above  all  men  a  definite  work  and  a  tan- 
gible connection  with  the  world;  and  yet 
on  the  other  hand  he  must  not,  if  he  values 
his  qualities,  get  overwhelmed  by  official 
entanglements  and  tiresome  business.  All 
gatherings  of  people  in  England  for  pur- 


232      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

poses  of  organisation  tend  to  lose  themselves 
in  procedure  and  finance;  they  organise  im- 
pulse and  ideals  away;  they  have  to  com- 
promise everything,  and  make  up  a  system 
that  will  satisfy  none,  and  yet  not  give  an 
excuse  for  overt  dissatisfaction  to  any.  I 
have  been  greatly  struck  lately  in  reading 
the  Life  of  Carlyle,  to  see  the  wonderful 
way  in  which  by  some  guiding  providence 
he  was  headed  oft'  from  ever  obtaining  any 
official  post  whatever.  He  was  at  one  time 
always  trying  to  get  a  professorship,  where 
his  freedom  of  speech  would  have  been 
hampered  and  his  wings  clipped. 

The  object,  then,  of  the  reflective  man 
should  be  to  engage  in  some  definite  simple 
humble  work  of  indisputable  usefulness,  and 
work  out  his  ideals  as  far  as  he  can.  If 
he  does  not  do  this  he  loses  a  sense  of 
proportion  and  actuality.  He  passes  into 
artistic  reveries,  and  grows  to  value  tone, 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      233 

and  quality,  and  grouping,  and  picturesque- 
ness  above  everything.  But  if  lie  lias  a  hold 
on  life,  then  the  dreamful  quality  that  is  in 
him  enlightens  and  enlarges  his  work,  makes 
it  fruitful  and  suggestive,  gives  it  balance 
and  vitality.  The  ambition  which  becomes 
pompous  and  arid,  if  it  sets  itself  to  ob- 
tain tangible  distinction  and  situations  of 
dignity  and  emolument,  converts  itself  into 
a  far  more  vital  force,  the  force  which  turns 
the  wheels  of  the  world,  and  is  bent,  not 
upon  making  a  splash  and  beating  the 
waters  into  foam,  but  in  running  as  swiftly 
and  silently  as  possible  among  quiet  fields 
and  under  leaning  trees,  from  sluice  to 
sluice,  and  from  mill  to  mill.  The  am- 
bition that  thus  comes  to  a  man  is  the 
ambition,  not  to  be  known  to  have  striking 
views,  and  to  be  praised  for  their  attrac- 
tive presentment,  but  the  far  deeper  and 
truer  joy  of  turning  the  current  of  thought 


234      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

in  the  right  direction,  of  increasing  energy 
and  labour,  of  helping  on  the  cause  of  order 
and  of  peace.  One  is  concerned  then  not 
with  riding  gracefully  over  the  billows,  but 
with  the  secret  of  the  wind,  and  the  pulse 
of  the  bounding  sea;  and  one  comes  to 
perceive  the  infinite  delight  of  being  in- 
side the  forces  of  the  world,  in  unison 
with  them,  rather  than  in  catching  from 
them  the  barren  joys  of  triumph  and 
applause. 

This  was,  may  I  humbly  and  gratefully 
say,  a  gift  from  the  dark  clouds  which  over- 
hung me  for  so  long,  a  sense  of  the  real 
worthlessness  and  even  ugliness  of  personal 
prestige,  and  the  dull  impostures  of  distinc- 
tion— the  tiresome  heavy  incommoding  trap- 
pings of  life.  Glory  became  revealed  as  a 
foolish  and  fretful  kind  of  game,  not  worth 
the  candle.  To  use  one's  faculties,  not  for 
the  joy  of  exercising  them,  or  for  the  pleas- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      235 

lire  of  seeing  fine  thoughts  and  great  ideas 
multiply  and  grow,  but  for  the  pleasure  of 
strutting  in  absurd  processions,  of  occupy- 
ing seats  of  honour — all  the  ceremonial  side 
of  life,  so  pretty  and  harmless  a  thing,  if 
it  be  but  as  the  gold  frame  of  the  picture, 
but  so  barren  and  distressful  if  it  be  made 
the  goal  of  one's  efforts! 

Yet  how  easy  it  is  to  deceive  oneself  in 
the  matter !  the  further  danger  of  the  subtle 
force  of  vanity  is  to  come  to  think  it  dis- 
tinguished to  be  undistinguished,  to  wrap 
oneself  in  a  robe  of  proud  unworldliness, 
to  desire  the  hideous  snobbishness  of  re- 
fined abstention.  That  is  the  meanest  thing 
of  all,  to  have  one's  eye  on  the  world  after 
all,  to  stimulate  its  interest  by  refusing  to 
gratify  its  curiosity.  From  this  may  com- 
mon-sense and  decency  deliver  us.  Let  me 
say  frankly  that  it  is  very  hard  for  a  writer 
who,  like  myself,  attains  a  certain  measure 


236      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

of  popularity  by  a  knack  of  attractive  writ- 
ing, not  to  be  inflated  by  all  the  private 
and  touching  and  interesting  communica- 
tions which  he  receives  from  many  quarters. 
But  it  brings  little  excuse  for  vanity!  One 
sees  so  clearly  where  it  comes  from.  If  one 
writes  candidly  and  with  some  design  of 
sympathy,  there  are  abundant  hearts  open, 
men  and  women  who  are  lonely  and  un- 
comforted,  in  uncongenial  circumstances 
and  surroundings,  who  touch  hands  with 
a  writer  if  they  know  that  he  has  failed 
much  and  often,  in  many  ways,  and  is  not 
ashamed  to  confess  it.  No  one  can  be  more 
conscious  than  I  am  of  perfectly  merited 
failure  to  carry  out  my  designs  or  to  im- 
press my  views  upon  the  world.  It  has 
come,  as  failures  do  come,  not  from  want 
of  capacity  so  much  as  from  weakness  of 
will  and  shallowness  of  nature.  I  say  this 
not  unconcernedly  but  frankly,  and  I  wish 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      237 

I  could  think  otherwise.  But  I  do  not 
doubt  the  trutli  of  my  visions  and  my  hopes, 
though  I  have  not  made  them  live  and  pre- 
vail. But  all  the  chances  I  have  missed, 
all  the  mistakes  I  have  made,  the  infirmity 
and  timidity  of  heart  that  follows  me  close 
and  dark  as  a  shadow,  are  things  which  I 
rejoice  to  see  and  recognise,  because  they 
have  shown  me  my  place  and  my  rank,  and 
have  enabled  me  to  find  my  level.  The 
publican  nowadays  is  apt  to  glory  in  his 
humility  and  to  thank  God  that  he  is  not 
as  the  Pharisee.  But  I  do  not  want  to  do 
that.  The  blessing  is  to  know  the  trutli, 
however  hard  and  ugly  the  truth  may  be. 
So  with  the  mire  and  clay  of  the  Slough 
of  Despond  about  one,  struggling  out  of  the 
cartloads  of  texts  which  had  been  shot  to 
mend  the  slobberiness  of  the  place,  one  gets 
one's  feet  upon  the  road  of  pilgrimage;  and 
across   the  fields  of  dark   mountains,   the 


238       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

pearly  radiance  and  the  high  melodies  of 
the  celestial  city  come  faintly  but  unmis- 
takably through  the  fresh  and  wholesome 
air. 


XXIV 

Soft  warm  winds  blowing  large  and  tran- 
quil from  the  south,  laden  with  secrets  of 
hope  and  mysteries  unfulfilled,  breathing 
the  breath  of  life!  Think  of  the  wind 
gathering  up  a  thousand  aromatic  scents 
from  wakening  flowers  and  gummy  buds, 
as  it  passes  viewless  over  woodland  and 
copse,  now  when  all  creatures  turn  to  each 
other  with  delight,  when  hand  seeks  hand, 
and  glance  intercepts  glance.  The  spring 
came  upon  me  too,  and  danced  in  my  blood, 
not  a  wild  fling,  but  a  sober  minuet  or 
Pavane — ceremonious,  perhaps,  with  all  its 
bowings  and  stately  advances,  but  a  kind 
of  wooing  too  for  all  that.  Just  to  live — 
that  was  enough;  and  all   creatures  that 

I  passed,  from  the  hen  scratching  furiously 
239 


240      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

in  the  byre,  drawing  back,  and  inspecting 
the  excavation  with  fierce  eyes  and  resolute 
pecks,  to  the  sheep  eating  against  time,  were 
filled  with  a  secret  glee,  as  though  they 
said,  "  Yes,  this  is  me,  just  here,  in  the 
best  place  in  the  best  of  worlds ! " 

The  mouldering  tower  of  the  church  was 
enchanting — it  looked  down  at  me  with  a 
solemn  twinkle  in  its  shuttered  eyes  over 
the  whitening  orchard.  The  children  flung 
wildly  out  of  school  and  tore  down  the 
street,  a  phalanx  of  little  trotting  legs,  in 
a  desperate  hurry  to  get  as  much  into  the 
time  as  they  could.  No  one  and  nothing 
asked  any  questions — why  born,  whither 
tending?  Life  was  just  a  skip,  hop,  and 
jump,  bursting  with  interest  and  delight. 
The  flowers  in  their  quieter  way  felt  it  too. 
They  stared  with  widely-opened  eyes,  and 
poured  out  their  clean  breath  upon  the  air. 
Even   as   I  went,   drinking  in   a  hundred 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      241 

charming  impressions,  a  brisk  current  of 
underbought  swept  through  my  brain. 
"  Yes,  and  then  there  is  this  and  that  ahead 
of  me — work,  letters,  that  will  not  take  long 
— then  there  is  the  evening,  and  I  shall  see 
A —  and  B — ,  and  there  will  be  this  to  talk 
about  and  I  shall  tell  them  that.  Yes,  that 
is  all  right."  It  was  hard  to  say  what  it 
was  all  about,  this  cheerful  appetite  for  life, 
but  one  did  not  stop  to  ask  questions.  It 
was  all  so  perfect  at  the  time,  but  now 
when  I  come  to  put  it  down,  it  seems  to  have 
nothing  in  it.  I  laughed  because  I  was 
happy;  I  was  happy  because  I  was  alive. 
Did  I  think  of  the  fifty  years  behind  me? 
not  for  a  moment.  As  I  passed  the  church- 
yard and  saw  the  tumbled  mounds  of  grass 
and  the  leaning  graves,  I  had  a  sudden 
twinge  of  sorrow  and  pity  for  those  con- 
demned to  sleep,  shoulder  by  shoulder,  in 
the  dark  loam,  when  there  was  so  much  need 


242       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

to  be  up  and  doing.  But  even  so  there  came 
upon  me  in  a  flash  the  sense  that  they  were 
up  and  doing,  that  life  was  all  there,  neither 
less  nor  more  than  it  had  ever  been,  that 
no  extinction  of  that  was  possible;  and  I 
turned  in  thought  to  all  my  brothers  and 
sisters  of  the  past,  who  had  suffered  the 
great  change,  and  knew  that  they  were  some- 
where still,  living  and  rejoicing  in  life. 

Not  all  happy,  perhaps !  The  invalid  boy, 
with  his  long  thin  hands,  sitting  in  the  cot- 
tage garden  among  the  damasked  mezereons, 
gave  me  a  wistful  smile  as  I  passed;  but  I 
felt  that  even  in  his  case  the  angel  of  the 
spring  was  bending  over  him,  kissing  the 
pale  brow  and  whispering  secrets  of  things 
assuredly  coming.  We  have  our  rightful 
joys,  I  think,  each  one  of  us;  and  as  much 
of  pain  as  we  need  to  teach  us  what  we  are 
blessed  by  knowing.  I  cannot  explain  it 
nor   understand   it,   but   if   I   could,   there 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      243 

would  be  no  need  for  the  dark  and  silent 
hour.  We  cannot  have  what  we  wish,  but 
there  is  some  great  tide  behind  us  and 
about  us,  which  bears  us  where  it  wills 
and  as  it  wills.  Sometimes  we  move  in  the 
clear  fresh  stream,  in  the  crystal  spaces 
among  the  water-weed,  swaying  all  one  way 
like  green  tresses.  Sometimes  we  poise  in 
quiet  backwaters,  and  sometimes  we  plunge 
through  roaring  sluices,  or  bear  away  the 
filth  of  the  world.  Yet  our  suffering  is 
but  the  condition  of  our  loving.  If  we  love 
we  must  suffer,  whether  it  be  that  we  can- 
not get  the  full  answer  to  our  love,  or 
whether  we  have  to  bear  the  sorrows  of 
those  whom  we  love.  But  perhaps  the 
worst  sorrow  of  our  love  comes  from  our 
selfishness — because  we  want  to  claim  for 
ourselves,  for  our  use  and  delight,  the  loves 
of  others.  And  that  is  what  pain  is  wear- 
ing away  for  us,  I  am  sure — the  selfishness 


244      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

of  love.     Even  now,  at  my  age,  there  are 
friends,  there  is  one  friend  whose  image 
comes  across  me  as  I  write,  of  whose  affec- 
tion I  want  to  be  sure,  and  am  not.     He 
is  a  worker  like  myself,  but  some  shadow 
has  fallen  across  our  friendship;  he  mis- 
trusts me  in  some  way,  he  will  not  show 
me  what  is  in  his  heart.     Now,  at  this  sea- 
son when  life  turns  to  life,  and  desires  to 
be  somehow  knit  together,  I  turn  with  a 
gentle  hunger  of  heart  to  the  thought  of 
him.     I  want  to  fare  onwards  in  his  com- 
pany, to  exchange  thoughts  and  fancies  with 
him  as  of  old.     But  he  is  withdrawn  from 
me;  and  I  hate  the  shadow,  whatever  it  is, 
that  parts  us;  and  then  there  comes  too  a 
yearning  for  the  sight  and  nearness  of  those 
whom  I  have  loved,  who  stand  on  the  other 
side  of  death.     I  want  to  see  them,  to  be 
at    ease   with    them,    to   catch    their    kind 
glances,  to  tell  them  how  I  loved  and  love 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      245 

them  still.  But  to-day  in  this  blessed  leap- 
ing forward  of  life  and  hope,  they  seem  as 
near  as  ever,  and  a  hundred  times  more  dear 
for  the  crystal  wall  that  severs  us. 

In  the  days  of  my  sore  illness  there  was 
nothing  which  fell  so  chill  upon  the  heart 
as  the  solitude  to  which  it  condemned  me. 
Those  strained  and  aching  cells  seemed  to 
pen  me  up  in  a  lonely  sorrow.  I  could 
not  stretch  out  my  hand  past  it.  I  had  no 
love  to  give,  and  I  could  not  receive  it 
either.  I  just  knew  it  was  all  about  and 
above  me,  but  I  could  not  feel  it,  and  when 
I  felt  it,  it  hurt  like  scalding  water.  I 
visited  one  day,  I  remember,  a  beloved  place 
where  I  had  lived  as  a  child,  and  where 
every  corner,  every  road,  every  tree  was  full 
of  memories,  infinitely  sweet  and  beautiful, 
of  old  careless  happy  days.  But  the  thing 
seemed  like  some  far-off  picture,  painted  in 

radiant  hues,   and   lost   for   ever.     I   sate 
16 


246      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

down  wearily  in  a  little  woodland  aisle, 
which  turned  delicately,  with  its  green 
floor  and  leafy  sprays,  into  the  heart  of  the 
great  wood,  with  all  the  towering  beeches 
and  dark  red-stemmed  pines.  How  often  I 
had  come  and  gone  there,  a  cheerful  child, 
full  of  solemn  business  and  plans.  There 
Avas  a  blue  clay  there  that  oozed  from  the 
ditch-side;  that  had  to  be  conveyed  away 
in  parcels  wrapped  in  chestnut  leaves  for 
purposes  of  moulding;  the  little  pine-tassels 
with  their  fragrant  dust  had  to  be  nipped 
off,  or  the  green  pungent  cones,  and  laid 
up  in  a  secret  store;  and  at  the  end  of  the 
walk  there  was  the  bright  nursery,  with  the 
new-cut  loaf,  and  the  story-book  afterwards, 
and  the  half-hour  with  my  father  to  see 
pictures,  or  to  have  a  picture  drawn  .  .  . 
and  then  the  good  nights,  as  if  one  were 
parting  for  ever,  and  could  hardly  bear  to 
think  of  the  sleep  that  must  intervene  be- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      247 

fore  another  of  those  full  sweet  days 
dawned,  with  the  birds  piping  in  the  gar- 
den thickets.  All  this  came  back  on  me, 
and  I  prayed  to  die,  so  separated  from  life 
and  hope  did  I  seem. 

And  now  I  seem  to  have  come  back  with 
the  heart  of  a  child,  with  every  sound  and 
scent  of  life  as  fresh  and  full  of  delight 
as  ever.  It  is  worth  passing  through  the 
darkness  for  that  alone.  Now,  too,  I  do 
not  even  seem  to  desire,  as  I  did  when, 
unknown  to  me,  the  darkness  was  drawing 
on,  to  make  the  most  out  of  every  moment, 
and  to  taste  the  luxurious  sorrow  of  the 
dying  sweetness  of  life.  I  want  to  take  it 
as  it  comes,  to  wonder,  to  learn,  to  live. 
I  want  to  clasp  hands  closer  with  all  I 
love,  not  to  waste  time  in  foolish  misun- 
derstandings and  mystifications,  but  just  to 
say  frankly  what  I  feel,  and  to  perceive 
what  others  are  feeling.      How  can  I  de- 


248      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

scribe  the  significance  with  which  it  is  all 
charged?  But  it  is  not  now  a  mere  search 
for  emotions;  in  those  darkening  days  I 
wanted  to  feel  at  every  instant,  to  taste  the 
essence  of  everything,  and  to  sweep  aside 
all  the  moments  when  my  feast  was  inter- 
rupted. Now  I  desire  rather  to  live  on 
such  terms  as  I  may,  to  reject  nothing,  to 
avoid  nothing.  Not  to  gorge  and  stuff 
myself  with  life,  but  to  be  restrained  and 
grateful. 

To-day  as  I  passed  by  a  little  thorn- 
thicket  on  the  road,  I  heard  a  thrush  utter 
deliberately  and  slowly  his  great  full  notes, 
all  charged  with  life  and  delight.  That  was 
his  thought  about  it.  The  day  of  toil  and 
search  was  over,  and  in  his  hour  of  reflec- 
tion, as  the  light  began  to  gather  westward 
in  orange  channels  among  the  purple  cloud- 
islands,  he  said  and  sang  just  that— the 
passion   and  the  sweetness  of  life.     Even 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      249 

so  would  I  speak  and  think,  drawing  my 
song  out  of  reality  and  experience,  and  not 
grudging  the  dull  hours  that  must  elapse 
ere  the  right  to  sing  is  earned. 


XXV 

I  have  learnt  by  experience  that  it  is  not 
good  to  be  much  alone,  but  I  have  not 
learnt  not  to  enjoy  solitude.  It  is  a  sweet 
cup  enough,  but  a  subtle  poison  lurks  in 
its  pale  beaded  amber  transparency.  It  is 
mischievous,  because  in  solitude  the  mind 
runs  its  own  busy  race  unchecked.  To  have 
to  mix  with  other  people,  to  find  things 
that  interest  them,  to  humour  them,  to 
watch  their  glances  and  gestures,  is  to  a 
person  like  myself  who  is  constrained,  less 
even  by  sympathy  than  by  courtesy,  to  try 
to  be  agreeable,  a  real  and  wholesome  dis- 
cipline. I  do  not  want  to  make  myself  out 
as  unselfish  or  genial;  but  it  is  a  pain  to 
me  if  any  one  in  whose  company  I  am  is 

discontented  or  displeased,  and  I  am  con- 
250 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      251 

sequently  obliged,  for  my  own  comfort  ulti- 
mately, to  keep  other  people  in  a  good 
humour.  But  whether  it  is  altruism  or 
courtesy  or  mere  self-interest  matters  little. 
Left  to  itself,  my  mind  develops  a  sort  of 
mechanical  current,  plods  along  a  beaten 
track,  sets  itself  one  way  like  a  flag  in  a 
steady  wind,  and  the  result  is  a  sort  of 
stupor  which  is  enervating  and  morbid.  It 
becomes  stagnant,  and  just  as  stagnant 
water  gives  a  chance  for  all  sorts  of  slimy, 
coiling,  flaccid  things,  half-animal,  half- 
plant,  to  breed  and  huddle  in  the  dim  warm 
liquid,  so  it  is  with  the  mind;  while  the 
touch  of  life  freshens  and  enlivens  it,  like 
a  pool  through  which  a  stream  flows  and 
ripples. 

But  to-day  there  was  no  choice.  I  was 
living  that  summer  at  Crummock  Water, 
My  friend  was  summoned  away  to  town  on 
business,  and  my  next  guest  was  not  due 


252      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

to  arrive  till  Monday.  So  as  I  had  to  be 
alone,  I  determined  to  enjoy  it,  just  as  one 
enjoys  shirking  an  engagement  if  one  is  ill. 
I  went  out  soon  after  breakfast  like  a 
happy  pilgrim.  I  had  my  staff  and  my  pro- 
vender and  a  note  of  the  way.  I  struck 
up  into  the  hills  by  a  narrow  path  which 
led  up  the  gorge  of  a  torrent  between  two 
scarred  and  blackened  mountains,  plodded 
on,  looking  about  me,  with  my  mind  sway- 
ing idly  like  a  water-lily  in  a  lake.  It  was 
fiercely  hot  in  the  lonely  vale  of  streams, 
in  which  I  abode,  like  the  narrow  soul  in 
Ossian.  The  flies  buzzed  fiercely  about  me. 
The  track  soon  vanished  in  the  hillside. 
Now  I  walked  on  green  turf,  now  on  grey 
boulders  tumbled  from  the  crag.  I  ploughed 
through  bilberries  and  bracken,  or  splashed 
through  rushy  bogs.  The  quiet  folds  of  the 
hills,  overlapping  each  other  as  the  stream- 
let turned,  all  full  of  a  golden  haze,  were 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      253 

beautiful  enough ;  till  I  came  out  on  a  great 
grassy  ridge,  with  the  green  shoulders  and 
craggy  buttresses  of  big  mountains  all  round 
me;  and  looking  over  I  saw  that  the  streams 
fell  the  other  way,  and  at  the  end  of  a  vast 
smooth  valley  I  had  a  sight  of  fields  and 
woods,  the  glint  of  a  lake  and  a  little  clus- 
tered grey  town.  The  whole  thing  was  like 
a  background  in  an  old  picture.  I  have 
often  wondered  how  the  ancient  painters 
can  have  fancied  that  the  world  ever  looked 
like  that;  and  now  I  saw  that,  allowing 
something  for  conventional  sight — for  we 
see  what  we  learn  to  see,  and  what  our 
fathers  have  seen,  not  what  our  eyes  really 
behold — and  for  immature  handling,  the 
world  did  really  look  like  that.  Those  hills 
there  were  really  azure  blue,  and  the  curves 
and  facets  of  the  crags  beyond  were  really, 
seen  in  miniature,  like  the  conical  sections 
of  a  custard  pudding  helped  by  a  spoon — 


254      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

a  gross  metaphor,  but  there  is  nothing  else 
that  expresses  it — the  whole  place  indeed 
looked  not  like  mountains  weathered  and 
worn,  but  like  sard  moulded  into  shape 
by  eager  childish  hands  and  abandoned  be- 
fore the  design  was  complete.  "  His  hands 
prepared  the  dry  land  " — I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  that. 

Up  here  the  air  was  fresh  and  invigor- 
ating. I  followed  the  stream  to  its  secret 
fastness,  where  it  brimmed  a  tiny  pool,  all 
cushioned  round  by  exquisite  soft  water- 
mosses,  out  of  which  pricked  the  strong 
spikes  of  the  golden  hill-asphodel,  the  love- 
liest of  mountain-loving  flowers. 

There  I  ate  and  drank,  and  like  the 
elders  on  the  mount,  I  saw  God. 

Yes,  I  saw  Him,  felt  Him,  rested  under 
His  great  hand,  breathed  His  patient  influ- 
ence. It  all  came  on  me  in  a  moment,  and 
in  a  moment  it  was  gone,  before  the  drop 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      255 

that  trembled  at  the  pool  edge  could  globe 
itself  and  drip  upon  the  stones  below.  I 
was  in  His  presence,  a  spirit  so  old,  and 
wise,  and  great,  that  I  knew  for  an  instant 
how  foolish  and  childish  it  is  to  wonder,  or 
to  grieve,  or  to  complain,  because  His  laws 
are  so  august  and  so  tremendous  that  one 
must  rejoice  with  all  one's  frail  heart  that 
one  is  ruled  by  them ;  whose  tenderness  is  so 
perfect  and  all-embracing  that  there  is  no 
room  to  doubt  or  fret;  who,  if  He  seems  to 
be  severe  or  indifferent,  is  only  so  because 
He  has  waited  so  long  and  has  so  long  to 
wait;  Avho  has  suffered  and  endured  and 
grieved  so  much,  that  pain  and  sorrow  is 
no  more  to  Him  than  the  fleeting  shadow 
of  a  bird,  flying  over  a  field  of  golden 
wheat;  and  whose  design  is  so  vast,  so  in- 
credibly joyful,  so  speechlessly  serene,  that 
the  doubts  and  griefs  and  sorrows  of  all 
the  men  and  women  that  have  ever  lived 


256      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

are  but  as  the  trivial  ripple  on  a  mighty 
ocean  of  peace.  That  was  the  vision;  and 
there  came  on  me  such  a  sense  of  hope  and 
eager  expectation  and  far-reaching  love,  that 
I  felt  utterly  swallowed  up  and  enfolded 
in  it,  as  a  drop  of  wandering  water  that 
sinks  into  the  bosom  of  the  sleeping  lake. 

What  did  my  sins  and  sorrows,  my  am- 
bition and  my  dreams  matter,  after  all? 
They  had  done  their  work  for  the  soul,  and 
had  fallen  to  the  earth,  as  the  withered 
leaf  drifts  from  the  forest  tree.  If  one 
could  but  keep  that  blessed  flame  alight  in 
the  heart,  how  easy  life  would  be !  I  knew 
that  life  had  not  been  easy,  and  that  it 
would  not  be  easy;  but  I  seemed  in  a  flash 
of  thought  to  see  myself  faring  onwards, 
bewildered  perhaps,  and  heavy-laden,  or 
elate  and  active,  till  my  time  came  to 
breathe  out  my  soul  upon  the  night,  and  to 
be  united  with  God  once  more,  without  the 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      257 

sad  sense  of  separation  given  me  by  this 
little  complex  frame,  in  which  my  infinite 
dreams  are  now  confined. 

I  bestirred  myself  at  last,  and  went  up 
to  a  big  hill-summit,  of  splintered  crags  and 
streams  of  stones,  that  lay  to  the  right  of 
me.  The  world  was  spread  out  before  me. 
I  saw  the  plain  laid  out  in  fields,  wood- 
dappled,  sun-caressed.  Beyond  lay  a  great 
sapphire  estuary — and  down  at  the  edge, 
where  the  river  on  whose  sources  I  stood 
widened  to  the  tide,  I  saw  a  great  clustered 
town,  with  its  tall  chimneys  spouting  smoke. 
It  was  horrible,  in  the  racing  wind,  among 
the  shadowy  hill-ranges,  in  the  waste  of  air, 
to  think  of  men  toiling  in  hot  factories,  of 
children  playing  in  mean  streets,  of  women 
in  frowsy  rooms,  tending  fractious  babies 
or  preparing  reeking  meals.  The  wonder 
was,  how  came  life  to  be  so  ugly,  so  gross, 
so  full  of  stuffiness  and  dirt,  of  noise  and 


258      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

care,  of  soil  and  stain,  for  so  many?  If 
one  were  courageous  and  loving,  would  one 
naturally  plunge  into  the  midst  of  it,  fight 
for  the  weak,  share  one's  joys,  spend  one- 
self freely,  fling  one's  own  life  into  the 
polluted  stream?  Was  it  mere  fastidious- 
ness, weakness,  selfishness,  that  kept  one 
back? 

Yes,  it  is  that,  in  a  sense.  If  I  were 
full  of  compassion,  and  love,  and  energy, 
and  hope,  I  should  doubtless  go  down  into 
that  confusion,  that  waste  of  waters,  as  men 
and  women  do  go,  not  with  a  sense  of  rich 
endowments  and  comforting  ideals,  to  dis- 
tribute them  as  from  a  box;  still  less  with 
a  sense  of  grim  rectitude,  and  superior 
principles,  to  censure  and  to  restrain — but 
simply  because  I  could  not  help  it,  as  I 
should  hasten  to  help  a  drowning  comrade 
or  to  save  an  animal  from  brutal  cruelty. 
But,  as  it  is,  I  do  not  wish  to  excuse  my- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      259 

self  with  subtle  reasons,  or  to  claim  to  have 
appropriate  and  sufficient  work  of  my  own. 
Yet  I  am  sure  that  if  by  some  constraining 
sense  of  shame  or  justice,  I  did  bind  myself 
to  such  a  work,  I  should  have  nothing  that 
I  could  say,  nothing  that  I  could  give,  no 
reserves  of  strength  or  courage  or  hope,  to 
lavish  upon  the  less  fortunate.  What  is 
needed  is  a  certain  positiveness,  a  certain 
dogmatism,  a  firm  persuasion  that  one  is 
on  the  right  path  oneself,  a  fixed  belief  that 
one  knows  how  to  help,  and  what  the  acts 
and  thoughts  are  that  would  bring  happi- 
ness to  those  who  are  crushed  under  the 
pressure  of  social  conditions.  Such  lost 
creatures  as  form  the  scum  and  sediment 
of  towns  like  these  want  nothing  that  I 
could  give  them.  They  want  robust  kindli- 
ness, tender  peremptoriness,  good-humoured 
patience,  strong  common-sense,  simple  out- 
spokenness.    They   would   not   understand 


26o      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

the  language,  still  less  the  substance  of  the 
visions  which  haunt  me,  and  of  the  dreams 
that  inspire  me;  the  best  I  could  give  would 
be  a  sort  of  lyrical  passion  of  hope  and 
beauty,  which  would  seem  to  them  mere 
rhapsody.  And  then  too  one  makes  a  sense- 
less blunder  in  allowing  oneself  to  feel  of 
these  towns  as  if  the  dwellers  all  lived  un- 
easy and  darkened  lives,  conscious  of  hard 
conditions,  longing  for  light  and  beauty. 
The  majority  of  them  desire  nothing  of  the 
kind,  they  are  perfectly  satisfied  with  life 
as  they  find  it.  Their  labour  does  not  op- 
press them ;  they  simply  take  it  as  a  natural 
condition  of  existence,  and  they  seek  to  fill 
their  leisure  with  full-flavoured  pleasure, 
food  and  drink,  noisy  sociability  and  gre- 
garious excitement.  The  men  love  their 
dogs  and  their  betting,  football  matches 
and  outings.  The  women  love  their  homes 
and  their  household  cares,  their  babies,  and 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      261 

their   gossip.     Art,   music,   poetry,   are   to 
them  mere  tedious  forms  of  boredom.    They 
don't  want  them,  and  think  them  all  stuff. 
And  for  myself,  I  don't  want  them  merely 
to  think  they  want  them,  I  want  them  to 
feel  the  need  and  the  craving  for  them.     I 
merely  desire  to  have  agencies  to  give  them 
the  kind  of  things  I  value,  when  they  need 
them  and  if  they  need  them.     I  do  indeed 
think  that  the  life  and  the  hopes  of  hu- 
manity are  slowly  widening  and  rising,  but 
God  seems  to  me  to  be  going  at  His  own 
pace  in  His  own  way.     To  use  an  image, 
wiiat  is  happening  seems  to  me  to  be  some- 
thing like  this.     A  father  has  gone  up  a 
hill  with  his  children.     They  have  come  out 
on  the  brow,  they  see  their  house  far  be- 
low, the  garden,  the  roofs,  the  chimneys, 
the  lane.     The  children,  half  laughing  and 
half  fretful,  would  persuade  their  father  to 
go  straight  down  among  the  crags — that  is 


262      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

the  quickest  way,  and  the  hour  is  late. 
They  can  see  every  bit  of  it,  and  it  is  just 
a  sort  of  staircase.  But  the  father  knows 
that  they  must  turn  their  back  upon  the 
goal,  and  descend  by  shelving  hill-shoulders 
and  through  sloping  bracken.  It  seems  so 
tedious,  but  it  is  the  only  way! 

Yet  there  seems  such  a  waste  of  wealth, 
such  a  sacrifice  of  energies  to  trivial  am- 
bitions and  conventional  pleasures,  such 
mischievous  indolence  fretting  to  be  whole- 
somely employed.  It  seems  sometimes  as 
if  there  were  indeed  two  great  spirits  at 
work  instead  of  one.  The  good  spirit  de- 
siring health,  and  simplicity,  and  justice, 
and  loving-kindness,  but  not  strong  enough 
to  make  men  desire  them  too.  The  dark 
spirit  loving  ruinous  excitement,  the  plea- 
sure that  beckons  to  death,  indolence,  lust, 
pain,  destruction,  and  hiding  his  deceit 
under   a   veil   of   momentary    satisfaction. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      263 

And  what  is  worse,  the  dark  spirit  seems 
to  have  on  his  side  so  much  that  is  sensible, 
and  practical,  and  true;  while  the  spirit  of 
light  has  nothing  to  offer  but  vague  dreams 
and  starry  silences  and  airy  exaltations. 

No,  I  must  hold  fast  to  the  slender  clue 
I  have.  I  must  work,  as  quietly  as  I  can, 
at  my  own  tasks,  which  seem  so  often 
trivial  and  hollow  enough,  and  I  must  bear 
as  I  can  the  sense  that  I  may  after  all  be 
but  a  skulking  and  delicate  traitor  in  the 
midst  of  an  urgent  fight.  Yet  I  do  with 
all  my  heart  desire  simplicity  and  truth, 
order  and  quiet  labour,  joy  and  peace.  I 
would  give  them,  if  I  knew  how,  by  lavish 
handfuls.  I  would  see  each  man's  life 
wholesome  and  sincere,  full  of  kindliness 
and  country  toil,  and  familiar  household 
ways.  I  would  give  them  work,  and  love, 
and  laughter,  and  sleep,  so  that  they  should 
open  their  eyes  day  by  day  on  a  world  of 


264      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

which  they  loved  the  very  vesture,  the  hills 
and  streams,  the  changeful  seasons,  and 
rise  eager  for  toil  and  leisure  alike  in  the 
old  homestead  and  the  familiar  scene.  I 
would  have  them  daring  and  adventurous 
— but  their  boldness  should  involve  no  hurt 
to  man  or  beast.  They  should  be  proud 
rather  than  vain,  neither  mean  nor  covet- 
ous, neither  spiteful  nor  melancholy — it  all 
seems  within  reach  of  the  hand;  and  yet 
the  world  by  some  dastardly  delusion  seems 
to  turn  its  back  upon  it  all. 

The  peace  of  the  solitude  where  I  sit 
seems  a  mute  reproach.  For  the  essence 
of  the  peace  of  the  hills  is  that  they  are 
haunted  by  no  miserable  memories  or  evil 
designs.  Nothing  tragic,  or  vile,  or  abom- 
inable, can  ever  have  happened  here,  none 
of  the  things  that  stain  or  shadow  the 
memory.  These  slopes  are  threaded  but 
by    lonely    shepherds    tracking    sheep,    or 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      265 

happy  travellers  strong  and  careless,  or 
perhaps  by  a  solitary  dreamer  like  my- 
self, straining  wistful  eyes  to  the  land  of 
promise. 

The  flies  flicker  about  the  fern,  the  bee 
hums  over  the  thyme,  the  beetle  blunders 
through  the  grass,  the  moor-pipit  flutters 
out  of  the  brake,  the  sheep  graze  on  the 
ledges.  Even  here  there  is  bewildered  pain, 
no  doubt.  The  grazing  sheep  crushes  the 
insect  in  the  grass,  the  hawk  strikes  at 
the  fluttering  brood,  the  lamb  shivers  in 
the  aching  snowstorm ;  but  that  pain  is  dif- 
ferent from  mine,  for  it  does  not  torture 
itself  by  thinking  how  easily  it  might  all 
be  different,  or  why  sorrow  should  be.  Yet 
the  world  is  sweet  and  beautiful  enough. 
Even  while  I  mused  the  sun  began  to  slope 
to  his  setting  and  the  shadows  fell  east- 
ward. I  bestirred  myself,  and  pushed  on 
up  to  the  mountain-top,  over  rock  and  turf 


266      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

and  splintered  shale.  There  in  the  golden 
light  spread  the  dim  ranges,  shoulder  after 
shoulder,  crag  by  crag,  soft  and  blue  in  the 
distance,  solid  and  strong  as  they  drew 
near.  The  valleys  seemed  to  brim  with 
golden  vapours,  the  lakes  were  like  silver 
shields,  burnished  with  innumerable  dints, 
fallen  among  the  hills.  There  came  a  pas- 
sionate longing  to  draw  it  all  into  the  heart, 
to  understand  what  it  all  meant,  light  and 
shadow,  hill  and  vale,  waiting  so  patiently 
and  so  peacefully — but  for  what?  The  sun 
was  gone  now,  trailing  the  orange  skirts 
of  twilight  after  him  across  the  misty  sea; 
a  delicate  coolness  swept  over  wood  and 
field,  wearied  by  the  hot  day,  a  little  space 
of  joyful  refreshment  between  the  eager 
flow  and  the  silent  darkness,  when  all 
things  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely  in  a 
happy  weariness,  and  to  live  in  memories 
and  dreams. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      267 

Last  of  all  I  went,  alert  and  fresh,  down 
the  crumbling  track,  by  the  cool  falling 
streams,  and  the  gathering  dusk,  till  the 
familiar  glade  received  me. 


XXVI 

William  Morris,  in  the  middle  of  his 
fiercest  and  dreariest  time  of  democratic 
agitation,  wrote  to  a  friend  of  some  literary 
work  that  he  had  to  put  aside,  and  said 
howr  jolly  it  would  be  to  be  going  on  with 
it  in  a  cottage  deep  in  the  country,  in  the 
autumn  weather,  which  he  loved  even  more 
than  he  loved  the  spring.  I  suppose  that 
all  busy  people  have  felt  something  like 
that.  I  remember  that  when  I  was  a  school- 
master in  full  work,  correcting  exercises  as 
fast  as  I  could,  just  trying  to  get  work  done 
in  time,  there  used  to  flash  across  my  mind, 
with  an  almost  sickening  sense  of  yearning, 
a  picture  of  some  place  which  I  had  known 
and  loved,  oftenest,  I  think,  one  of  those  old 

houses  such  as  I  knew  in  Cornwall,  half- 
268 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      269 

manor,  half-farm,  with  barns  and  stacks 
about  it,  perched  on  a  hillside,  where  the 
upland  dipped  steeply  down,  with  copse  and 
dingle  and  rough  cart-tracks,  to  a  valley 
where  the  time  came  softly  twice  a  day. 
Just  to  stand  there  for  an  instant  would 
be  enough,  to  smell  the  sea-scent,  as  the 
brine  stirred  the  tangled  bladder-weed,  to 
hear  the  rustle  of  the  dry-leaved  oak-copse, 
and  the  liquid  whistle  of  the  curlew  over- 
head !  I  was  reading  the  other  day  the  life 
of  that  ingenious  writer  James  Payn,  such 
a  lover  of  town-life  and  the  club  whist-table 
in  his  later  years,  and  saw  that  he  lived  as 
a  young  man  after  his  marriage,  in  a  cot- 
tage under  the  leaf-hung  crags  of  Rydal. 
Rydal !  with  its  towering  scar,  and  its  fern- 
clad  slopes,  and  the  dark  water  of  the  lake, 
with  its  island  thickets,  its  fringing  curve 
of  reeds!  It  seems  better  to  live  and 
breathe  there,  to  pass  from  one's  books  into 


270      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

the  mountain  solitudes  where  the  streams 
fall  in  rocky  pools  from  the  green  head  of 
Fairfield,  than  to  stroll  down  Pall  Mall, 
with  the  heavy  roar  of  London  in  the  air, 
into  the  muffled  murmurs  of  the  crowded 
club. 

How  often  have  I  thought,  since  my  life 
took  its  new  turn,  when  I  have  been  wan- 
dering in  some  remote  part  of  England,  and 
have  seen  some  solitary  grange  on  the  edge 
of  the  moorland,  or  a  quiet  house  in  a  stone- 
walled Cotswold  hamlet  among  its  orchards, 
that  life  could  there  be  a  perfectly  easy, 
beautiful,  simple  thing.  The  strange  thing 
is  that  though  I  have  tried  it,  proved  its 
fallacy,  seen  its  emptiness,  the  delusion 
haunts  me  with  an  almost  irresistible  im- 
pulse. But  it  is  refreshment  which  one 
needs;  a  contrast,  not  a  change  of  life.  It 
is  sweet  and  wholesome  enough  to  make  re- 
treat into  these  beloved  places,  to  walk  far 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      271 

among  woods  and  moors,  to  forget  the  din 
and  dust  of  life,  to  shake  oneself  free  of 
trivial  entanglements,  to  watch  the  delicate 
forms  of  plant  and  tree,  the  long  lines  of 
pasture-land  and  fallow,  to  pass  through  the 
old  clustered  hamlet,  long  moulded  by  the 
use  and  care  of  man.  Only  thus,  I  think, 
does  one  redress  the  balance,  set  the  pro- 
portion right,  invigorate  the  fretted  brain. 
But  one  cannot  live  among  these  peaceful 
scenes,  unless  one  also  really  lives  in  them. 
One  may  wish  that  fate  had  made  one  a 
woodman  or  a  shepherd ;  and  doubtless  it  is 
the  fact  that  the  blood  of  so  many  hundreds 
of  old  peasants  and  labourers  flows  in  our 
veins  that  makes  us  regard  such  scenes 
with  so  fond  and  urgent  a  love.  But  life 
and  circumstance  have  made  me  different, 
and  to  leave  faculties  unused  and  pent-up 
is  a  sure  source  of  morbid  miseries.  It 
is  only  a  very  few  of  the  strongest  and 


272      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

simplest  spirits,  like  Wordsworth,  who 
can  dare  to  seclude  themselves  in  peace; 
and  even  Wordsworth  paid  a  heavy  price, 
in  self-absorption  and  solemnity,  for  his 
experiment. 

But  that  one  still  desires  it,  though  one 
cannot  do  it,  seems  to  me  a  proof  or  a  pre- 
sumption that  the  spirit  comes  from  some 
land  of  secret  peace  and  returns  to  it,  its 
probation  over;  and  that  the  stir  and  inter- 
change of  life  is  but  an  interlude  in  some 
more  tranquil  existence;  that  one  comes  to 
life,  as  one  goes  to  school,  to  learn  definite 
things,  to  get  experience.  Life  would  be 
too  cruel,  too  pointless  a  thing,  in  its  con- 
stant disappointment,  its  hurry,  its  pres- 
sure, its  blank  failures,  if  it  were  not  so. 
It  seems  to  me  a  chance  that  is  given  us 
to  act  finely,  to  gather  in  love,  to  prove 
that  we  can  aim  at  something  which  lies 
behind  all  difficulties  and  uncongenialities. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      273 

And  thus  though  I  am  sure  that  for  all  of 
us  a  life  of  action  and  intercourse  and 
labour  is  the  true  one,  that  we  cannot  hope 
to  linger  day  by  day  among  the  woods  or 
fields  we  love,  to  see  the  daylight  melt  into 
dark,  and  the  star  rise  tangled  in  the  dewy 
grove,  yet  that  the  desire  to  do  this,  the 
deep  thirst  of  the  spirit  for  such  fine  raptur- 
ous moments,  is  a  very  real  symbol  of 
some  deep  and  wonderful  adventure.  I  was 
told  once  of  a  very  hard-worked  and  faith- 
ful parish  priest,  who  in  a  holiday  went 
with  a  friend  to  a  quiet  and  beautiful  part 
of  England.  They  were  standing  together 
one  evening  by  a  bridge  over  a  little  stream 
that  ran  beside  their  inn,  while  the  shiver 
of  the  dusk  passed  fragrantly  down  the 
valley,  and  the  friend  said  something  about 
the  beauty  of  it  all.  The  weary  priest  said, 
"  Yes,  it  is  beautiful,  but  to  me  it  is  only 

beautiful  in  a  horrible  way!     I  have  lived 

18 


274      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

so  long  in  dirty  and  ugly  places,  so  full 
of  human  beings  at  their  worst  and  mean- 
est, that  I  have  lost  all  the  power  of  feeling 
the  charm  of  silence  and  night  and  the 
sound  of  waters.  It  means  nothing  to  me 
now;  it  only  comes  to  me  with  a  mocking 
echo  of  something  that  I  have  lost."  That, 
I  think,  was  a  very  sad  word,  with  a  sad- 
ness about  it  for  which  no  passion  of  work, 
no  energy  of  toil,  can  wholly  atone;  it  was 
not  only  that  he  had  lost  the  taste  for  what 
was  beautiful,  but  he  had  lost  with  it  the 
power  of  peace  and  delight,  which  leavens 
and  transmutes  all  that  we  do.  One  can- 
not work  from  a  sort  of  bitter  and  dreary 
habit;  for  then  all  that  one  does  and  says, 
for  the  sake  of  others  and  to  others,  is 
clouded  and  obscured,  unless  one  carries  in 
oneself  a  spring  of  beauty  and  joy.  The 
yearning  for  such  things,  even  if  it  comes 
as  a  tired  contrast  to  what  one  is  doing, 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      275 

is  at  least  a  sign  that  one's  heart  is  alive. 
And  so  what  one  must  aim  at  is  a  just 
and  due  proportion;  one  must  make  life 
and  relations  and  sympathies  the  main  cur- 
rent of  our  days ;  but  we  must  also  as  care- 
fully try  to  keep  our  hearts  alive  to  things 
that  are  beautiful  and  quiet,  just  as  the 
stream  which  foams  and  bubbles  over  the 
weir,  turns  the  mill,  bears  the  boat,  cleanses 
the  drain,  also  has  its  time  of  peace,  when 
it  creeps  up  the  still  backwater  among 
flowering  plants  and  wild-rose  thickets,  laps 
among  the  reeds,  lets  fall  its  soiled  burden, 
and  returns  again  pure  and  tranquil  to 
gladden  the  earth  and  serve  it 


XXVII 

The  vital,  the  profound  mistake  of  my  little 
experiment  was  that  I  tried  to  arrange  life 
on  romantic  lines.  I  do  not  know  how 
one  can  learn  that  this  is  not  possible  ex- 
cept by  doing  it  and  finding  it  a  failure. 
Many  people  have  not  the  chance  of  doing 
it  at  all,  and  that  is  perhaps  a  happier 
solution;  but  I  found  myself  at  the  age  of 
two-and-forty  a  free  man  after  a  very  busy 
professional  life  of  twenty  years,  with 
enough  to  live  upon,  no  claims,  no  family 
ties.  It  was  then  that  an  ideal  took  shape, 
to  live  the  poetic  life.  I  thought  I  could 
make  my  writing  the  solid  business  of  my 
life,  and  that  otherwise  I  could  live  simply 
and  quietly,  avoiding  tiresome  routine  and 

business   duties,   seeing  just  the   people   I 
276 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      277 

liked,  and  practising  to  enjoy  solitude, 
which  must,  as  life  goes  on,  envelop  and 
involve  the  unmarried  man,  whether  he  will 
or  no. 

But  one  must  take  life  as  it  comes;  one 
must  live  it,  one  cannot  enact  it.  Self- 
dramatisation  is  a  difficult  thing  and  needs 
great  courage,  great  inventiveness,  a  pro- 
longation of  childlike  zest,  a  magnificent 
imperturbability.  I  do  indeed  know  a  few 
people  whose  life  is  still  a  childish  game, 
intently  played;  but  at  its  best  it  is  only 
a  species  of  entrenchment,  where  every  de- 
vice is  employed  to  avoid  the  onset  of  life; 
and  even  so  there  is  generally  a  traitor  in 
the  citadel.  Affection  is  a  traitor;  one 
finds  oneself  drawn  to  love  some  one  of  the 
invading  host,  and  then  all  one's  defences 
become  but  cumbrous  obstacles  to  one's 
chance  of  welcoming  the  beloved  one  inside 
the  lines.     One  makes,  it  may  be,  a  clumsy 


278      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

effort  to  capture  and  kidnap;  and  if  one 
cannot,  the  old  suffering  begins  again,  which 
seals  the  garden-spices  up  and  clouds  the 
steady  sun.  Or  else  some  feeble  quality 
turns  traitor;  it  is  not  enough  to  feel 
serene;  one's  serenity  must  be  observed  and 
envied;  or  feebler  still,  the  little  grievance, 
the  tiny  disappointment,  becomes  an  in- 
tolerable thing,  and  assumes  a  morbid  pro- 
portion inside  the  paradise,  like  the  princess 
who  slept  so  uneasily  upon  the  twenty 
feather-beds,  because  of  the  dried  pea  on 
the  nether  mattress! 

But  life  itself — life  dreadful,  severe, 
monotonous,  as  well  as  life  exciting,  ador- 
able, delicious,  is  what  we  need.  It  is  the 
experience  which  we  fear  and  yet  have  to 
conquer  which  helps  us,  not  the  experience 
which  we  clasp  to  our  heart.  We  have  to 
do  the  duties  which  bore  us,  to  adjust  our- 
selves to  peevish  and  froward  people,  that 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      279 

we  may  realise  that  we  are  capable  of  bore- 
dom, and  that  we  may  learn  that  we  are 
ourselves  prejudiced  and  unreasonable.  The 
strife,  the  censure,  the  annoyance  which 
takes  the  heart  out  of  one,  the  necessity 
of  yielding  and  compromising,  the  fear  of 
pain  and  sorrow,  the  failure,  the  blunder, 
the  loss — these  are  the  things  which  purify 
and  strengthen,  and  not  the  pleasant  loiter- 
ing in  the  meadow  beside  the  stream.  It  is 
the  power  of  recollecting,  combining,  im- 
agining, the  power  of  knowing  exactly  what 
we  dislike,  and  of  reconstructing  the  design 
of  life  without  it,  which  brings  us  suffering. 
But  the  wonder  and  the  largeness  of  life 
all  consist  in  the  fact  that  it  is  so  different 
from  anything  which  we  could  have  de- 
signed and  executed.  So  much  more  un- 
expected, so  much  more  imaginative,  so 
much  stronger,  bigger,  freer,  more  vehement 
— more  real,   in   fact.      We   think   of  our- 


28o      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

selves  when  we  are  young  and  hopeful,  as 
we  think  perhaps  of  Odysseus,  moving  on 
through  life  patient,  inventive,  gleeful;  we 
subtract  the  horror  and  the  danger,  the 
nakedness  and  the  hunger,  because  we  anti- 
cipate throughout  the  triumph  and  the  vic- 
torious home-coming;  ultimate  triumph  and 
the  consciousness  of  it — that  is  what  we 
demand. 

And  instead,  what  do  we  find? — a  com- 
plex labyrinthine  place,  full  of  blind  alleys 
and  high-walled  glooms;  tracts  of  it  pleas- 
ant enough,  no  doubt,  where  the  road  is 
level  and  grassy,  and  the  trees  dangle  their 
fruit  over  the  wall;  but  then  we  come  to 
be  aware  of  death  girdling  the  horizon 
whichever  way  we  look,  like  an  encircling 
sea;  and  there  are  ugly  things  lying  in  wait, 
giants  and  pitfalls,  and  padding  fiends  with 
hollow  voices,  "  great  stenches,"  as  in  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  that  lie  across  the  road. 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      281 

The  error  is,  not  if  we  feel  heroic — it  is 
all  the  better  if  we  can  do  that — but  if  we 
feel  romantic,  anticipate  ultimate  triumph, 
believe  that  we  shall  find  life  at  last  golden 
and  serene,  all  its  victories  won.  Instead 
of  that  we  must  face  disaster  and  failure, 
and  last  of  all  we  know  not  what,  by  which 
we  shall  be  shattered  once  and  for  all;  we 
need  not  dwell  in  these  thoughts,  nor  be- 
moan our  hard  fate;  all  that  is  a  weaken- 
ing and  a  wasteful  thing;  and  the  more  we 
practise  to  be  serene  and  undismayed,  the 
less  will  all  calamity  hurt  us.  But  we  need 
not  believe  calamity  and  stress  and  pain 
to  be  wholly  horrible  things;  we  must  ob- 
serve them  fearlessly,  feel  them  deeply,  bear 
them  patiently,  and  then  they  will  yield 
their  sweetness  and  their  strength. 

And  thus  we  may  grow  to  perceive  that 
life  as  it  is,  and  not  life  on  our  own  terms 
and  conditions,  is  a  marvellous  thing,  and 


282       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

that  its  power  to  mould  and  enlarge  us  lies 
in  its  unexpectedness,  its  terror,  its  mys- 
tery, its  sudden  splendours,  its  lofty  music. 
Experience  is  the  one  thing  we  all  of  us 
want;  it  is  for  that  that  we  are  here;  and 
we  must  not  sort  and  select  it.  We  must 
live,  in  fact,  by  instinct  rather  than  by 
reason.  The  real  life  of  man  lies  in  his 
instinct,  in  the  blind  force  that  thrusts 
him  into  life  and  bids  him  go  forward. 
Reason  is  but  the  power  of  perceiving  and 
analysing  and  arranging  experience;  but  it 
has  no  force  in  itself;  it  is  the  eye  and  not 
the  heart  of  the  spirit. 

And  so  I  saw  that  I  must  not  only 
scheme  to  watch  and  enjoy  and  distinguish, 
and  assess  flavours  and  hues  and  sounds, 
but  that  I  must  love  and  suffer  and  work, 
and  be  weary  and  sorrowful  and  bewil- 
dered; and  the  great  disaster  that  crept 
upon  me  so  secretly  and  silently  was  the 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      283 

very  guidance  of  God,  showing  me  that  I 
must  not  choose,  nor  reject,  nor  sit  remote, 
but  descend  into  the  turbid  stream,  rushing 
in  desolate  places,  and  dip  myself  there 
seven  times  if  I  desired  to  be  healed. 

Oh,  the  blessed  voice  that  called  to  me 
so  gravely  as  I  sate  in  my  sheltered  garden 
looking  out  over  the  green  miles!  It  was 
grievous  enough,  when  I  found  myself  in 
heaviness  and  disgust,  staring  out  upon  a 
world  that  had  lost  all  beauty  and  sweet- 
ness for  me.  But  now  that  the  light  has 
returned,  it  is  an  added  sweetness  to  walk 
in  the  silent  woodland  paths,  where  I  medi- 
tated flight  and  even  death.  There  is  a 
place,  how  strangely  stamped  upon  my 
mind,  where  the  pasture  rises  steep  from 
a  little  hazel-hidden  stream,  where  I  turned 
aside  into  the  wood,  in  one  of  my  days  of 
anguish,  sate  down  upon  a  fallen  tree, 
looked  hither  and  thither  and  determined 


284      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

that  I  must  die — that  there  was  no  way 
out.  What  would  I  not  have  given  then 
to  have  just  sunk  down  in  peace  among 
the  spring  flowers,  and  to  have  felt  the  tide 
of  oblivion  roll  in  upon  my  soul !  But  even 
in  that  moment  a  voice  from  somewhere 
deeper  than  any  reason  could  penetrate 
said:  "No,  you  cannot;  you  have  yet  far 
to  go;  you  must  struggle  on,  bear,  en- 
dure.'' And  as  it  is,  to  pass  that  place 
is  now  a  sacred  and  a  joyful  thing,  because 
it  brings  back  to  me  my  sad  hour  and 
the  voice  that  spoke  with  me,  and  the 
knowledge  that  there  might  yet  be  good 
days  in  store. 

But  the  best  thing  that  such  an  hour  does 
for  the  spirit  is  to  reveal  the  depth  of  its 
bitterness;  deeper  than  self-pity,  beyond  all 
pretences,  all  excuses,  further  than  any 
consolation  or  love  can  reach.  One  can 
never  be  quite  the  same  again,  after  that 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      285 

baptism  of  suffering,  because  one  has  seen 
the  naked  truth;  but  one  knows,  too,  that 
it  is  possible  to  endure  even  that,  and  to 
emerge  unscathed  and  full  of  joy. 


XXVIII 

It  is  long  since  I  have  written  in  this 
book;  the  months  speed  past,  and  to-day 
is  a  perfectly  beautiful  day  of  autumn. 
The  sunshine  is  clear  and  still,  brimming 
the  fields  and  hollows  of  the  distant  hills 
with  a  golden  haze  and  shadows  of  sapphire 
blue.  Coming  home,  I  look  out  from  the 
windows  of  my  little  book-lined  room,  over 
a  great  box-hedge,  into  the  quiet  College 
garden — such  a  strangely  secluded  place, 
with  its  grassy  terraces,  its  tree-girt  pad- 
dock, to  find  in  the  heart  of  a  busy  town! 
The  hum  of  the  streets  comes  to  me  as  a 
mellow  murmur.  The  high  elms  are  just 
beginning  to  flame  into  gold,  the  Virginia 
creeper  on  the  chapel  wall  intertwines  its 

scarlet  tresses  with  the  sombre  green  of  the 

286 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      287 

ivy.  The  sunset  begins  to  fade  over  the  old 
walls  and  screening  thickets  into  a  peaceful 
tinge  of  green  just  touched  with  streaks  of 
rusty  orange. 

But  this  quiet  is  no  more  for  me  a  thing 
in  itself,  a  thing  to  feed  upon  and  surrender 
the  mind  to.  I  do  not  count  the  time  ill- 
spent  when  I  could  do  that.  But  it  is  now 
just  a  sweet  background  to  a  busy  and  ac- 
tive life,  full  of  duties  and  business,  of  no 
great  sweep  or  range  perhaps,  but  worth 
doing  and  loving.  I  have  not  wholly  es- 
caped, I  feel,  from  the  shadow  of  the  dark 
hours;  every  now  and  then  a  causeless  sad- 
ness creeps  upon  me,  stealing  the  joy  out 
of  life  for  half  a  day.  But  that  again  I 
do  not  regret,  for  it  reminds  me  almost 
thankfully  of  the  long  months  of  distress 
and  gloom,  and  all  I  have  endured. 

To-day  I  went  with  a  friend  far  into  the 
country;  he  told  me  in  frank  speech  how 


288       Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

he  had  been  spending  sad  weeks  in  his  old 
home,  seeing  the  gradual  withdrawal  from 
life  of  one  whom  he  loved  very  dearly.  He 
had  had  to  bear  the  sorrow  of  sitting  hope- 
lessly beside  her,  while  she  lay  stricken  into 
silence,  aware  only  too  well  of  what  was 
happening,  the  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes 
and  falling.  There  was  no  hope,  he  said,  of 
any  sort  of  recovery,  and  all  that  science  and 
skill  could  do  was  just  to  prolong  the  fading 
worn-out  life,  which  only  longed  to  rest  and 
cease.  The  saddest  thing  of  all,  he  said, 
was  that  one  could  not  even  communicate 
one's  thought  or  one's  love.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  said,  for  all  that  could  agitate 
was  forbidden;  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
watch  the  soul,  sorely  hampered  by  the 
fading  body,  make  its  slow  way  into  dark- 
ness. What  could  be  the  meaning,  he  said, 
of  a  descent  into  death  so  reluctant,  so  full 
of  anguish,   so   bewildered,   either   for  the 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      289 

poor  spirit  itself  or  for  those  that  stood 
round?  The  very  bearing  of  pain,  the  fruit- 
less endurance,  seemed  to  steal  from  him 
the  best  energies  of  life,  hopefulness  and 
usefulness  alike  burning  away  in  a  sort 
of  slovenly  and  ill-savoured  flame.  What 
worthy  plan,  he  said,  could  be  involved  in 
any  decay  that  seemed  so  disgraceful  to  the 
laws  of  strength  and  light? 

Yet  I  felt  and  tried  to  say  that  the  very 
mystery  of  it  all  was  almost  a  proof  of  its 
fruitfulness.  A  spirit  might  be  resting 
thus,  purging  itself,  in  some  process  far 
deeper  than  any  intellectual  perception, 
from  stubbornness  and  harshness  of  spirit. 
Because  it  is  clear  to  me  that  there  is  some- 
thing in  each  of  us  which  does  need  to  be 
broken.  We  cannot  break  it  for  ourselves, 
however  much  we  may  grieve  to  feel  the 
presence  of  the  indomitable  quality,  what- 
ever it  may  be — self-confidence,  harsh  judg- 
19 


290      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

ment,  rectitude,  dogmatism.  The  only  way 
by  which  this  self-surrender  can  be  forced 
upon  the  spirit  is  by  its  being  confronted 
with  some  impenetrable  sorrow  or  blank 
fear.  When  we  have  faced  that,  have  seen 
no  ray  of  light  or  hope,  and  yet  find  that 
the  soul  lives  on,  irrepressible,  imperishable, 
vital,  we  may  then  be  sure  that  our  deliver- 
ance draws  near.  Yet  nothing  but  unutter- 
able fear  can  do  for  us  what  we  need,  the 
fear  which  reduces  us  to  our  last  elements; 
when  we  can  only  remember,  as  in  a  troubled 
dream,  that  we  have  loved  others  or  that 
others  have  loved  us,  so  incredibly  remote, 
so  helplessly  sad  do  the  memories  of  old 
bright  days,  happy  groups,  thoughtless  joys 
appear — all  irrecoverably  lost,  fruitlessly 
squandered,  heedlessly  enjoyed! 

It  is  said  by  those  who  minister  at  death- 
beds that  no  one  is  ever  afraid  to  die;  it 
is  not  only  that  the  body,  racked  by  rest- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      291 

less  pain,  desires  to  sink  into  unconscious- 
ness, but  there  comes,  I  believe,  into  the 
mind  the  knowledge  that  after  all  it  is 
natural  and  simple  to  do  what  all  have 
done,  to  take  the  next  step,  to  pass  into 
new  experience.  Once,  in  a  moment  of 
perfect  health,  in  the  Alps,  I  came  very 
near  to  death  indeed  in  a  crevasse.  I  was 
rescued  only  just  in  time,  after  swimming 
faintly  away  in  my  expiring  breath.  I  cer- 
tainly had  no  sense  of  fear;  and  stranger 
still,  on  recovering,  my  first  thought  was 
not  of  relief,  but  of  unwillingness  to  be 
recalled  to  life.  It  seemed  all  over  and 
done  with,  and  I  seemed  caught  back  from 
something  even  more  real  than  life. 

Now,  indeed,  in  recovered  health  I  have 
an  intense  desire  to  live  and  to  use  life. 
All  that  I  do  seems  charged  with  signifi- 
cance and  savour.  I  find  myself,  indeed, 
when  I  fall  asleep  at  night,  feeling  the  un- 


292      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

conscious  hours  that  are  to  follow   as   a 
waste  of  rich  material.      But  behind  and 
beyond  all  that,  there  is  a  sense  of  a  life 
more  permanent  and  real  than  any  press 
of  worldly  business,  any  intellectual  delight, 
any  pleasant  scheme  or  hope.      A  deeper 
current  seems  to  flow  beneath  it  all,  a  cur- 
rent of  being,  of  which  the  outward  sign 
is  not  the  tangible  part  of  life,  but  the 
relations    with,    the   recognition    of,   other 
spirits  like  my  own,  which  seem  to  me  now 
not  so  much  as  brothers  and  sisters,  distinct, 
though  with  common  interests,  as  part  of 
the  very  stuff  of  my  own  being.      That  is 
now  one  of  the  deepest  joys  of  life,  to  push 
past  all  the  material  defences,  the  habits, 
gestures,  prejudices,  tastes,  judgments — all 
the  things  that  isolate  us  from  each  other 
— and  to  feel  the  contact  of  a  trustful  and 
harmonious  spirit  within.    Friendship — love 
— these  are  imperfect  words  for  that  recog- 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      293 

nition;  they  are  little  more  than  the  acts 
and  signals  that  surround  the  inner  unity. 
What  it  all  means  I  hardly  know,  because 
there  still  seem  abundance  of  spirits  to 
whom  one  cannot  thus  draw  near.  But  it 
seems  almost  the  deepest  gift  of  all  which 
has  been  given  me,  to  be  able  to  look  na- 
turally and  without  any  chilly  defiances  for 
the  answering  spirit  behind  the  material 
veil.  Not  only  does  my  shadowed  period 
seem  to  have  increased  and  multiplied 
friendships,  but  to  have  deepened  those  al- 
ready existing  in  a  way  which  I  cannot 
describe — to  have  brought  a  new  power 
with  it  of  dispensing  with  the  slow  cere- 
monies of  proffered  concord. 

Of  course  the  old  thwarting  difficulties 
recur;  but  they  come  in  a  different  shape, 
not  as  eternal  distinctions,  hostilities  of 
aim  and  view  which  cannot  be  dispelled 
and  must  be  accepted,  but  as  temporary 


294      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

divisions,  which  may  be  broken  down  both 
in  oneself  and  others.  The  things  which 
divide  us  seem  to  be  but  the  shadow  cast 
by  the  body  upon  the  spirit.  In  this  world 
of  matter  we  have  to  provide  ourselves  with 
food  and  shelter,  we  have  to  secure  our 
place  in  the  world,  to  live  our  lives;  and 
as  if  that  were  not  enough,  we  like  to  sur- 
round ourselves  with  things  which  we  can- 
not use,  but  which  we  may  gloat  over,  like 
the  rich  fool  in  the  Gospel,  as  accumulations 
to  safeguard  us  in  ease  and  indolence. 

I  cannot  honestly  say  that  this  has  wholly 
left  me;  even  if  one  does  not  care  for  mere 
possessions,  still  one  craves  for  privacy  and 
security,  and  these  are  expensive  things. 
But  one  may  see  through  them,  I  think, 
and  realise  that  there  is  a  union  possible 
behind  it  all. 

I  do  earnestly  desire  not  to  hoard  my 
h£)pe  and  my  knowledge.    "  Learn  to  know 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      295 

all,  and  to  keep  thyself  unknown,"  says  the 
old  grim  cautious  motto.     The  more  I  know, 
I  now  think,  the  less  do  I  desire  to  keep  my- 
self unknown.    There  is  nothing  I  would  not 
tell,  if  it  only  assuredly  broke  down  some 
barrier  between  myself  and  another's  soul. 
It  is  this  which  I  believe  one  has  to  do 
— to  cast  oneself  freely  and  lavishly  on  the 
world;  not,  of  course,  in  a  voluble  egotism, 
just  telling  one's  tale,  like  a  child,  with  no 
thought  of  anything  but  the  pleasure  of 
describing.     I  do  not  mean  that  at  all.     I 
mean  rather  the  communicativeness  which 
by    its   confidence    attracts    another's   con- 
fidence, and  wins  a  secure  trust — to  arrive 
at  an  understanding,  to  realise  that  we  are 
all  bent  on  the  same  peace  and  affection,  not 
to  let  any  preference  or  prejudice  stand  in 
the  way  of  harmony.     Not  to  be  afraid  of 
giving  ourselves  away,  and  to  dread  only 
separation  and  loneliness. 


296      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

That  seems  to  me,  perhaps,  the  central 
thought  of  the  Gospel  message— to  become 
as  little  children,  guileless,  open  to  any 
proffer  of  friendship,  caring  for  nothing  but 
a  sharing  of  joy.  The  image  does  not  mean 
that  the  child  is  necessarily  faultless,  but 
its  faults  are  not  cold  or  calculating  faults, 
but  the  faults  of  weakness  or  ignorance. 
It  is  the  poor  pretence  of  not  being  ignorant 
and  weak  that  maims  so  many  spirits.  The 
joy  is  not  to  know  what  we  need,  not  to 
be  self-confident,  vain  of  our  effectiveness, 
greedy  of  influence. 

To  see  the  best,  to  desire  it,  that  is  the 
secret.  It  is  that  which  works  slowly  out- 
wards from  within,  transforming  and  mak- 
ing beautiful,  just  as  age,  when  self  departs, 
makes  calm  and  firm  the  harsher  lineaments 
of  the  years  of  stress  and  strife. 

To  resolve,  if  we  may,  that  nothing  on 
our  side  shall  keep  others  from  us — that  is 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      297 

all  that  we  can  do,  to  forget  slights  and 
humiliations,  to  labour  above  all  for  peace, 
remembering  that  even  now  there  is  no  war 
so  vile  but  that  it  professes  to  aim  at  justice 
and  tranquillity.  To  discern  in  everything 
the  deeper  currents  of  the  soul;  not  to  be 
misled  into  thinking  that  any  clear-sighted- 
ness of  view,  any  artistic  expression  of 
thought,  can  atone  for  any  chilling  of  the 
life-blood  of  emotion,  any  checking  of  the 
vital  beating  of  the  heart.  To  live  in  the  day 
and  for  the  day,  neither  in  dreamy  memory 
nor  radiant  prospect,  but  just  dealing  with 
life  as  simply,  as  humbly,  as  tenderly  as 
one  can. 

And  last  of  all  this;  we  must  be  content 
to  remain  in  very  great  and  sorrowful 
ignorance  of  many  of  the  mysteries  of  life. 
It  will  not  do  to  make  our  theories  com- 
plete, and  to  have  brisk  and  complacent 
certainties.     A  theory  is  too  often  only  a 


298      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

shield  with  which  a  man  wards  off  experi- 
ence, and  guards  himself  from  the  loving 
wounds  of  God.  We  fortify  ourselves  in 
countless  ways  against  the  Unknown,  by 
work,  by  wealth,  by  comfort,  by  talk,  by 
laughter,  by  philosophy,  alas,  even  by  re- 
ligion. What  we  can  all  of  us  experience, 
if  we  will,  is  the  reaching  out  of  the  soul 
to  light,  and  truth,  and  love ;  but  it  is  easy 
to  quench  that  flame,  by  caution  and  un- 
kindness  and  suspicion,  and  the  anxious 
care  for  tangible  things.  We  must  free 
ourselves  from  anything  which  weighs 
down  the  spirit;  if  we  resist  a  generous 
impulse,  if  we  learn  to  criticise  and  be- 
little rather  than  to  admire  and  praise;  if 
we  impute  mean  motives,  if  we  suspect  the 
goodwill  of  others,  if  we  sacrifice  persons 
to  causes,  if  we  labour  for  esteem,  we  are 
darkening  the  light;  we  must  not  be 
ashamed  of  weakness,  for  if  the  danger  of 


Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff      299 

the  strong  is  the  temptation  to  bend  others 
to  their  will,  it  is  the  privilege  of  the  weak 
to  see  more  clearly,  even  if  they  cannot 
effect  what  they  desire;  and  so  the  only 
way  is  to  open  our  whole  soul  to  experience 
and  light  and  God,  rejoicing  in  weakness, 
and  ignorance,  and  humiliation,  because 
these  are  the  openings  through  which  the 
truth  passes  in  to  the  soul;  our  own  souls, 
the  souls  of  others,  God — these  are  the 
eternal  things,  and  not  the  fading  glories, 
the  gross  satisfaction  of  the  visible  world. 

And  so,  before  we  part,  I  will  only  ask 
any  unseen  friend  into  whose  hands  this 
book  may  fall,  to  say  with  me  the  old  psalm, 
which  in  its  tender  waiting  upon  God,  its 
gentle  bearing  of  experience,  its  holding  out 
of  loving  hands  to  all  desirous  souls,  its 
infinite  hope,  sums  up  and  consecrates  all 
that  I  have  tried  to  say  or  wished  to 
express : 


300      Thy  Rod  and  Thy  Staff 

The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;  I  shall  not  want. 

He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  green  pastures; 
he  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters. 

He  restoreth  my  soul:  he  leadeth  me  in  the 
paths  of  righteousness  for  his  name's  sake. 

Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil:  for  thou 
art  with  me;  thy  rod  and  thy  staff  they  comfort 
me. 

Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the  pres- 
ence of  mine  enemies:  thou  anointest  my  head 
with  oil;  my  cup  runneth  over. 

Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me 
all  the  days  of  my  life:  and  I  will  dwell  in 
the  house  of  the  Lord  for  ever, 

THE  END 


M  Selection  from  the 
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G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


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John  Ruskin 

A  Study  in  Personality 

Cr.  8vo.  $i.JO  net.  By  mail,  $1.65 
"  I  have  written  these  pages  with  a  desire  of  provoking 
a  discriminating  interest  in  the  man's  life  and  work,  with 
a  desire  to  present  a  picture  of  one  of  the  most  suggestive 
thinkers,  the  most  beautiful  writers,  and  the  most  vivid 
personalities  of  the  last  generation." — From  the  Preface. 

Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


By  Arthur  Christopher  Benson 

Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 

The  Upton  Letters 

A  Companion  Volume  to  "  The  Schoolmaster  " 

Cr.  8vo.     $1.25  net.     By  mail,  $1.40 

"  A  book  that  we  have  read  and  reread  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  its  delicious  flavor.  There  has  been  nothing  so 
good  of  its  kind  since  the  Etchingham  Letters.  The  letters 
are  beautiful,  quiet,  and  wise,  dealing  with  deep  things  in 
a  dignified  way." — Christian  Register. 

"  A  piece  of  real  literature  of  the  highest  order,  beautiful 
and  fragrant.  To  review  the  book  adequately  is  im- 
possible.     .      .      .     It   is   in  truth    a    precious    thing." 

Weekly  Survey. 

From  a  College  Window 

Cr.  8vo.     $/.2j  net.     By  mail,  $1.40 

11  Mr.  Benson  has  written  nothing  equal  to  this  mellow 
and  full-flavored  book.  From  cover  to  cover  it  is  packed 
with  personality ;  from  phase  to  phase  it  reveals  a  thorough- 
ly sincere  and  unaffected  effort  of  self-expression ;  full-orbed 
and  four-square,  it  is  a  piece  of  true  and  simple  literature." 

London  Chronicle. 

Beside  Still  Waters 

Cr.  8vo.     $1.25  net.     By  mail,  $1.40 

"  A  delightful  essayist.  .  .  .  This  book  is  the  ripest, 
thoughfulest,  best  piece  of  work  its  author  has  yet  pro- 
duced."— The  Dial. 

"  It  is  a  graceful,  charming  book,  lucidly  and  beautifully 
written." — N.  Y.  Sun. 

The  Silent  Isle 

Cr,  8vo.     $1.30  net.     By  mail,  $i.6j 

"  No  more  fascinating  volume  of  essays  has  ever  ap- 
peared in  our  language.  .  .  .  the  humor  is  of  a 
peculiarly  delicate  kind — the  humor  of  a  Quietist.  It 
must  be  purchased,  or  you  must  borrow  it  permanently,  or 
forget  to  return  it  to  the  library." — London  Morning  Post. 

Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


By  Arthur  Christopher  Benson 

Fellow  of  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge 

The  Leaves  of  the  Tree 

Cr.  8vo.     $1.50  net.     By  mail,  $1.65 

Contents:  Bishop  Westcott,  Henry  Sidgwick,  J.  K.  Stephen, 
Bishop  Wilkinson,  Professor  Newton,  Frederick  Myers,  Bishop 
Lightfoot,  Henry  Bradshaw,  Matthew  Arnold,  Charles  Kingsley, 
Bishop  Wordsworth  of  Lincoln. 

Mr.  Benson  presents  biographical  sketches  and  appreciations  of 
certain  distinguished  men,  each  one  of  whom,  through  his  life,  his 
character,  his  works,  and  above  all  through  personal  contact, 
exercised  a  constructive  influence  upon  the  author  of  The  Upton 
Letters  and  of  The  Silent  Isle. 

The  Child  of  the  Dawn 

Cr.  8vo.     $1.50.     By  mail,  $1.65 

An  allegory  or  fantasy  dealing  with  the  hope  of  immortality. 
The  author  does  not  attempt  any  philosophical  or  ontological  ex- 
position of  what  is  hidden  behind  the  veil  of  death,  but  deals  with 
the  subject  imaginatively  or  poetically,  seeking,  as  he  says,  "  to 
translate  hopes  into  visions." 

Paul  the  Minstrel 

And  Other  Stories 

Cr.  8vo. 

7  he  tales  which  are  gathered  together  in  this  volume  are  cast  in 
the  cold  romantic  form;  they  have  a  semi-mediaeval  atmosphere,  such 
as  belongs  to  the  literary  epic;  but  they  all  aim  more  or  less  directly 
at  illustrating  the  stern  necessity  of  moral  choice.  In  them  the 
author  touches  with  the  light  of  romance  some  of  the  knightly 
virtues  which  are  apt  to  be  dulled  into  the  aspect  of  commonplace 
and  uninteresting  duties. 

SPECIAL  LIBRARY  EDITION  of  The  Upton  Letters— Beside 
Still  Waters — From  a  College  Window.  Limited  to  500  sets.  3 
vols.,  8vo.  Printed  on  Old  Stratford  linen.  Handsomely  bound, 
gilt  tops,  deckle  edges.     Sold  in  sets  only.     $7.50  net. 

Q.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


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